1940: Lithuania
by Servant of Anubis
Summary: Subjugate. Verb.: to bring under complete control or subjection; conquer; master. To make submissive or subservient. What happened to Lithuania and Poland in 1940 and '41 .
1. Acquisition

My first Hetalia fic, featuring my favorite character, Russia! And my second favorite character, Lithuania!

This is the Hetalia version of what happened to Lithuania as a result of the **Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact**, also known as the Soviet-German Pact, or the Nazi-Soviet Alliance. (For an amazing doujinshi about what happened to poor Poland, I'd recommend 1939, found on DeviantArt. http: // punpunichu . deviantart . com /art /Hetalia- 1939- 113675193 Remove spaces, etc...

Anyways, Lithuania's story!

---

Subjugate (**suhb**-j_uh_-geyt) verb.: to bring under complete control or subjection; conquer; master. To make submissive or subservient.

--

Now and days, Lithuania read the morning paper in horror. A year earlier, Germany had moved with surprising speed through the western half of Poland, his blitzkrieg tactics serving him well, while Russia swept in from the east. Now the world watched with baited breath as Germany closed in on France. It was only going to get worse. But to be honest, Lithuania's thoughts were with Poland, although he tried not to think about how Poland was doing. Lithuania hadn't heard anything from the usually cheerful nation since the just before the invasion. And then the Polish government had collapsed, and now…

As much as he wanted to help his friend, there wasn't anything he could do. His own army wasn't strong enough by a long shot to take on either Russia or Germany, and Lithuania's boss was not going to jump to Poland's aid at the risk of the country.

Besides, Lithuania wasn't stupid. Russia had shown up at his house shortly after taking over Poland, his coat still splattered with dried blood, and demanded in his sickeningly kind way that Liet sign a 'pact of defense and mutual assistance' which would let Russia station troops in his country—'in case you ever get into trouble', Russia had said, as Liet paled and signed the document, right next to the signatures of Estonia and Lativa. If Lithuania were to attempt an attack on Russia (or Germany, for that matter), the soldiers in his country would immediately rise up and sabotage his efforts from the inside.

And Lithuania had his own problems brewing. Yesterday he had received news of Russian troop movement on the western borders coupled with fleet movement in the Baltic Sea, and there was still that business with the Russian soldiers that had apparently been kidnapped. He couldn't believe that anyone would have been stupid enough to kidnap a Russian soldier in these conditions. The initial report seemed sincere, but Russia nearly always appeared sincere on the surface and Lithuania didn't trust him. Russia made him nervous. Very nervous. He had lived under, and sometimes with, the huge nation on and off over the last century, and he was fairly certain that Russia was still bitter over his last departure…

The phone rang, sharp and shrill, snapping Lithuania out of his thoughts. He reached for the clunky phone on his desk and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Toris Lorinaitis?"

"Speaking."

"This is Major Petras Vasiliauskas. We've just received confirmation on the troop movement near the borders; there are nearly a quarter of a million Soviet troops stationed there."

Lithuania felt a chill course through him. _Russia_. "Thank you for informing me," he said politely.

The major muttered the appropriate response and they hung up. Lithuania gazed somberly at the phone for a few more moments. A quarter of a million troops stationed at the border, and close to twenty thousand soldiers already in the country thanks to that god forsaken mutual assistance pact… The Lithuanian army totaled only twenty-eight thousands troops.

Liet bite his lip, then picked up the phone and called Estonia.

"Hello?"

"Estonia? It's Lithuania." He coiled the phone cord around his finger out of habit.

"Ah, Lithuania." He sounded tired. "How are you?"

"Russia's on the border," he blurted, and winced. He had meant to say 'alright'.

There was a silence. "I'm blockaded. No ship can get in or out," Estonia answered.

Lithuania felt his heart sink. "He's going to…invade, isn't he?" he whispered.

"There's nothing we can do," Estonia replied simply. "Even if you, myself, and Latvia were already mobilized for war, there's no way we could stand against Russia, even together."

Liet knew this, of course, but hearing Estonia state the facts so starkly… He felt on the verge of tears.

He took a deep breath. "So, what should we do?"

"Hope for the best." The Baltic nation hesitated. "Latvia and I have decided that, if Russia tries to invade… we'll let him."

"Let him?" Lithuania repeated.

"Resisting would only get innocent people killed, and in vain. Russia would still win. So we'll minimize our losses."

_At the price of our freedom, _Liet thought bitterly, but he didn't voice it. Estonia was right. He sighed, and said so.

"Have strength," Estonia said, a hint of resignation in his voice, before they bid each other good day.

Liet returned the receiver to its cradle and sighed. He missed Poland…

--

A call woke him from sleep just before midnight. Bleary-eyed, he fumbled for the phone and picked it up.

"Hello?" he muttered sleepily.

"Dobryj vyechye, Lithuania!"

He gasped aloud, scrambling to sit upright in his bed. "R- Russia," he stuttered, fully awake now.

"Da. I have a message to deliver to you, so please listen closely," he said pleasantly. "In response to Lithuania's unlawful kidnapping of two Soviet soldiers and the country's conspiracy with the countries of Estonia and Latvia, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics issues to Lithuania this ultimatum and requests that Lithuania comply with the following: that those responsible for the decision to kidnap the Soviet soldiers be placed on trial for their illegal actions; that a government more capable of adhering to the Mutual Assistance Pact be formed; and that a sufficiently large number of Soviet troops be permitted to enter Lithuanian territory."

Lithuania's mouth was dry; he struggled to swallow. "Russia, I—"

Russia ignored him. "Your answer is required no later than ten hundred hours, June 15." He paused. "Did you get all that?"

"Yes," Lithuania said softly. Oh god. First Poland, and now— _Sufficiently large number of troops?_ What the hell did that mean?

"Then I'll talk to you tomorrow, da?" The line went dead.

Lithuania stared at the phone for a minute longer, before hanging up and throwing off the bed sheets. He had to get to council.

--

He sat off to the side of the president and prime minister, listening quietly as the council members debated the ultimatum and, consequently, his fate. Both current and former Chief Military Advisors dutifully reported that an effective armed resistance was impossible, although President Smetona argued passionately for resistance, even if it was merely symbolic. Prime Minister Merkys and his deputy were practically pleading for acceptance, unwilling to shed the people's blood in vain. The president countered that, even without resistance, blood would be shed.

Lithuania feared he was right.

As they argued back and forth, tempers running high in the early morning hours, Lithuania thought about Poland—where he was, how he was doing. His country had been taken over by both Russia and Germany, so where was he staying? Was he under strict house arrest, unable to communicate with anyone but his captors? Or maybe he was shunted back and forth from Germany's house to Russia's house, traded like a—a piece of property. His lips twitched up into a crooked little half smile at the terrible irony, but immediately fell when he remembered his current situation.

"Why should we surrender? Poland fought against both the Soviet Union and Germany," Smetona pointed out.

"Yes, and look where that got them!" a council member retorted sharply. "The Polish nation is dissolved! Poland is gone!"

Even though he hadn't meant what it sounded like, Liet still shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He knew Poland was still alive; there were still people who considered themselves Polish, who believed themselves to be living in Poland no matter what other countries said. Poland would survive anything as long as that belief held out.

The Prime Minister glanced at Lithuania and caught his eye, leaning back in his seat; Liet scooted his chair closer to hear.

"What do you think of all this?" he asked quietly under the noise of the heated discussion. "Fight or surrender?"

The Baltic nation searched the man's eyes and saw fear and desperate hope there. "If we could, I'd fight." And he would fight; he would be on the front lines, and Russia would find him. Countries always found each other on the battlefield. "But…" he dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to meet the man's eyes for any longer, and shook his head. "We can't win. I don't want the people to die for nothing. That's not fair to them."

The minister nodded somberly. "You are a man after my own heart," he said, before turning back to the others.

_No_, Lithuania thought silently. _I'm not a man at all._

--

By 7:00am the morning of June 15th, the meeting ended with a decision to accept all of the demands without complaint or protest—the Prime Minister and his cabinet had even resigned, to make way for the new government.

Lithuania bid farewell to the council members before turning back to the president. "Well, that's it then," he stated impassively.

The man nodded sadly. "I suppose so." He paused. "What will happen to you?"

Lithuania knew exactly to what he was referring. "I'll probably have to live at Russia's house again," he said with a forced nonchalance, inwardly cringing. He could tell that the president wasn't convinced and quickly switched topics. "What will do you?"

Smetona turned south, eyes on the horizon. "Myself and Musteikis will seek asylum to the south," he said, his voice distinctly devoid of emotion.

Asylum, in Germany? After what that country had done to Lithuania's people earlier in the war? After Germany had worked together with Russia to take over Poland? But Liet didn't say anything—staying here would probably get Smetona killed, and Lithuania knew that men feared for their lives in situations like this, and with Russia coming, rightly so.

The president turned back to Lithuania and met his eyes firmly. "This probably won't mean anything to you; I'm sure you've heard it before, but… It was an honor working with you, Lithuania. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you, or your people."

The Baltic nation felt his eyes prick with tears and blink them back. "You helped get me out of Germany's house after the Great War. Be proud of what you accomplished. Not many people can say they returned independence to a country, can they?"

A brief smile ghosted over Smetona's face before the heaviness of the situation crushed it. "No, I suppose they can't," he murmured. "Good luck," he said louder, nodding slightly.

"And to you," Lithuania returned, watching the man go.

As soon as the president was out of sight, his shoulders slumped. Casting one last glance over the council building, he turned and started home.

He had to call Russia with their answer.

--

Lithuania dismissed the guards at his home and told them to go to their families, then went inside and put the kettle on. With a glance at the clock—nearly 8:30—he went to his office and placed his call.

"Zdravstvujtye?"

"Laba diena, Russia. It's Lithuania. I have the council's answer to your ultimatum," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Ah, good! What did you decide?"

Lithuania thought of the shots fired at border stations earlier in the morning, and how Russian soldiers were harassing Lithuanians, hoping to provoke a reaction. _I'm doing the right thing. Russia will invade either way; he's just looking for an excuse._ "We accept your terms unconditionally," he said quietly, unable to keep the defeat from his voice. It still hurt. Losing his independence would always hurt.

"I'm so glad you agreed with me!" Russia exclaimed happily. "I was worried that you would try to do something foolish, like Poland, but I knew you were smarter than that."

Lithuania's grip tightened at the mention of Poland, but he didn't respond. Just looking for an excuse…

Russia didn't seem bothered by the silence, continuing. "Wait for me then, da? I'll be over in a few hours. See you soon, Lithuania!"

The Baltic nation hung up the phone and went to the kitchen, where the kettle whistled angrily. He poured himself a cup of tea and sat down to wait, trying to compose himself and gather the fragments of his courage.

He would need it.

--

The Russian troops crossed the borders soon after the announcement and were met with no resistance. Lithuania was grateful; he had been concerned that someone would disobey orders and attack, but thankfully the soldiers seemed to understand that any resistance would lead to a blood bath. The foreign soldiers quickly occupied Vilinus, the capital, and four other major cities, and Lithuania listened to the radio news only because he couldn't bear the idea of not knowing what was happening.

His thoughts drifted once again to Poland, but were quickly overshadowed by questions of what would happen to him. He tried to reassure himself. He had lived under Russia before. He knew the huge nation's moods, knew what was dangerous to do or say, knew how to avoid the worst of it. He would be okay. He would endure. He had always endured.

The loud pounding on the door startled Lithuania so badly he almost dumped tea down his uniform. Setting the cup carefully on the table, he rose and went to the door. Before opening it, he paused, unwilling. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to go back to Russia, not again. But he knew that the perpetually tipsy country would break down the door and haul him away by force if need be—he had done it before. Lithuania noticed his hand, resting on the doorknob. Argh, he hadn't even _seen_ Russia yet and he was already shaking!

"Privet~!" Russia call as he waylaid the door again. Fearing the wood would splinter, Liet took a deep breath, then opened the door to face him.

"Toris!" Russia greeted him with a smile, using his human name for the benefit of the soldiers behind him.

"Bragniski," Lithuania nodded politely, hoping the use of Russia's last name would signal his unhappiness with the situation.

Either Russia didn't catch the suggestion (which Liet doubted) or he ignored it. "Are you ready to go?" he asked in Russian, also presumably for the soldiers' benefit.

"Yes. I packed my things already." He could do this. He had done it before; he could do it again.

Russia raised his arm and casually backhanded the Lithuania so hard the smaller country fell to the floor. Uncomprehending, Lithuania blinked up at the larger nation.

The huge nation just smiled. "You speak Russian now, da?" he said pleasantly. Behind him, one of the soldiers unsuccessfully stifled snickered.

Lithuania felt a shiver of fear. He had a horrible feeling that this time, living with Russia was going to be different.

---

Russia pretty much tried to erase of Lithuania's culture while it was under Soviet control. You learned Russian in school and used with anything official or public. Lithuanian culture was suppressed, history rewritten to make Russia and Lithuania look like BBFs for life, religion outlawed, etc. And hundreds of thousands of Lithuanians ended up in the Gulaug camps. Joy.

America: How bad could living under Russia really be?

Lithuania: Let me put it this way- I'm totally f***ed.

Vocab time!  
Russian:  
Dobryj vyechye- Good evening  
Zdravstvujtye- Hello (formal, but not incredibly formal)  
Privet- Hey! (incredibly _informal_, a greeting used between friends/close acquaintances)

Lithuanian:  
Laba diena- Good evening (formal, but not incredibly formal)

Please R&R!


	2. Visitation Rights

I hadn't planned on continuing this fanfic either, but then I had an idea... So it looks like this will be a full story after all. Enjoy!

---

Within the week Estonia and Latvia had joined Lithuania at Russia's house; they all had blushed and looked at the ground upon seeing one another, embarrassed to have been put back into this same situation.

But this living arrangement was different from the last few times Lithuania had lived with Russia. For one, Russia was dead serious about the Baltic nations speaking only Russian. If the freezing country was in ear shot of anyone when they spoke in their native tongue, he would cheerfully exclaim 'language!', as if he were a doting father scolding his children for swearing. If any of the Baltics were unfortunate enough to forget themselves and speak to Russia directly in their own language, then Russia responded the same way he did when he brought Lithuania home: a careless backhand that often sent the smaller countries to the ground, while Russia just smiled pleasantly and reminded them, 'remember, you speak Russian now, da?' Lithuania found himself translating for Estonia and Latvia while they struggled to regain fluency, a level Liet had acquired years ago. But soon he caught himself speaking Russian to himself and the others even when the frightful country wasn't around to notice, and when Lithuania dreamt in Russian for the first time, he cried.

The other thing that had changed was Russia himself. He had always sought to bring other nations under his roof, but now the desire bordered on fanatical. Whenever he faced a potential set back, he'd just smile and say 'do not worry; is okay. All will become one with Russia soon.' Lithuania suspected that this new belief was a direct effect from having Lenin and Stalin as Russia's previous and current bosses; although Liet had never met either of the men directly, he had mixed feeling about them. Well, about Lenin anyways—he knew Stalin was bad news, if the Five-Year Plans and Gulags were any indication. Not to mention the Great Purge. Thousands had died, and Lithuania could only hope that Stalin wasn't planning the same for his people…

But other than that, life progressed as it had previously at Russia's house. The Baltic nations mostly concerned themselves with cleaning and cooking and other such household chores during the day; when they finished they kept themselves out of Russia's sight as much as possible, unwilling to attract attention. The war kept Russia out of the house frequently, if not for several weeks straight then at least a few days, and Lithuania was profoundly grateful for the small respite it granted. Still, the war made Russia very unpredictable when he returned home.

The door banged open and Lithuania jumped, almost dropping the silver he had been polishing.

"Oh ho ho, Finland, you horribly clever boy! Cocktails to go with the breadbaskets! I never knew you had such a sense of humor!"

Following the imaginative cursing, Lithuania went to the kitchen where he found Estonia and Latvia cowering off to the side as Russia clumsily rummaged through a cabinet. Liet's eyes widened in shock when he noticed the charred black coat and angry red blisters over Russia's shoulder and upper arm, the obvious cause of his fury. He turned and ran for the first aid kit, knowing that they probably didn't have enough supplies for an injury of this magnitude. Upon his return, he saw Russia seated at the table, drinking straight from the bottle; when he had finished draining the contents, he dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor and reached for a second one.

Drunk Russia, not what they needed. "Russia Zimavich—"

Russia lurched, almost choking, gasping for breath. "Don't call me that!" he snapped, before raising the vodka to his lips again.

"Russia," Lithuania corrected, kicked himself for the slip. Russia never wanted to hear about General Winter. "Let me treat the burns. If you don't do something about them—"

"Tcha, I'm fine," the huge nation answered with a growl.

Lithuania stepped towards the table, cautiously. "Please, Russia. At least let me cool the burn. It will lessen the pain," he pressed gently, nodded to Estonia and Latvia, who took the hint and gratefully fled the room in search of towels.

"I _am_ lessening the pain," Russia pointed out, child-like, brandishing the bottle.

The effect would have been somewhat more successful had Lithuania not known better. "Let me help?" he pleaded softly.

Russia's violet eyes flashed. "I don't need help," he retorted.

Crud. "Of course not," Lithuania recovered quickly. "But you are in a great deal of pain, and treating the wounds will make them heal faster."

The Arctic country made a displeased noise, but visibly relaxed; Liet realized this was as close as he'd get to a 'yes'. Estonia and Latvia reappeared at the doorway and Lithuania relived them of the armful of cloth they brought; they murmured 'good luck' when the eldest Baltic turned back to face the still drinking nation. As the cloth soaked in cold water, Lithuania returned to Russia's side and very carefully cut off the sleeve of the ruined coat. Then, steeling himself for potential backlash, he lightly peeled back the charred fabric from the burns, wincing at the gruesome sight, trying not to flinch as Russia stiffened, pain tightening his hands into fists.

Amazingly, they weren't third degree burns, just really bad second degree ones, although the size alone probably qualified them for major injury. Lithuania rung out one of the cloths until it was moist but not dripping, then gently, gently placed it on the burns. Russia hissed—Liet froze fearfully, but the wounded country made no further compliant, so he continued, covering the burn with a layer of cooled towels. He worked the better part of an hour in silence, switching the warmed towels out for cool ones while Russia continued to drink, albeit at a slower pace. Lithuania would have liked Russia to put the vodka away completely, but he was not going to push his luck.

"Does it feel any better?" he asked finally, putting the towels aside and opening the first aid kit. He would have offered painkillers had Russia not consumed so much alcohol.

"Da, da…" Russia answered, setting down the fourth empty bottle. He rolled his shoulder experimentally, wincing as he did.

"Let me wrap that," Lithuania said, turning back with gauze in hand.

Russia frowned. "You cannot wrap a burn. It won't heal."

"Left open, it will become infected. A loose wrap," the Baltic nation promised. Russia nodded, and Liet proceed to wrap the burn, again careful not to cause unnecessary pain.

"I'm lucky to have you here, Lithuania. You are very useful," Russia remarked cheerily, back to his normal happy self, the dark anger skillfully concealed.

"Um, thank you," Lithuania muttered as he cleaned up the medical supplies, realizing with a shock that the cold country had essentially just thanked him.

"Do not worry. I will make sure you do not have to patch me up again," Russia replied with a smile, and Liet found himself feverishly hoping that Finland was well prepared.

--

Finland was evidently prepared, as Russia's boss called off the invasion after three months of punishing winter combat. Russia appeared outwardly unaffected, but the Baltics knew better than to mention the incident.

Nearly a month later, Lithuania was washing lunch dishes in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Estonia and Latvia paused in their work as the eldest of the three dried his hands and walked towards the hall. Before he reached it, Russia swept past and Lithuania stopped, hiding himself around the corner and listening, feeling very much like a child.

The sound of a door opening.

"Privet, Germany! Thanks for dropping Poland off!"

Lithuania smothered a gasp, peeking around the corner cautiously. Russia step away from the door to let them in and Liet saw Poland, eyes to the ground, shoulders slumped—as if all life had fled from the boy. Stunned, Lithuania unconsciously stepped out into the hallway, mouth agape.

"I'll be back in four months," Germany said flatly, as efficient as ever, and dismissed himself.

Russia watched him go for a moment, and Lithuania could practically feel the displeasure rolling off the country's form. Then it vanished, pushed aside as Russia shut the door and turned to Poland.

"I'm glad you're back, Poland; I missed you. Pity you can't stay for longer, but you know how Germany can be." He shrugged, not truly concerned. "Make yourself at home!"

And Lithuania flattened himself against the wall as Russia turned and walked passed, pausing for a moment to look down at the smaller nation with cold eyes. "I expect no trouble from you, da?"

The Baltic country nodded furiously, trapped under the intensity of Russia's gaze. Then Russia smiled, chilling Lithuania to the bone, before heading to his office to call his boss.

Once he was gone, Lithuania looked back to Poland, who was still standing by the door listlessly. He crept over quietly, unsure of what he'd find.

"Poland?" he whispered.

Poland stirred, looking up blankly; when his eyes focused on Lithuania, he blinked. "Liet?" he croaked, voice weak from disuse. "Like, why are you here?"

Lithuania's composure broke and he rushed over to embrace Poland—good god, he was so skinny!—tears pouring down his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered over and over, not certain for whom exactly he was crying, perhaps both of them. Poland just stood there mutely, letting Lithuania soak his thread-bare shirt.

Lithuania took a shuddering breath and quelled his tears. "What happened to you uniform?" he asked, belatedly realizing what a pointless question it was.

Poland answered anyways. "He took it." He didn't need to explain who 'he' was.

"Poland…" He wasn't sure he should ask, but… "What did Germany do to you?"

The blond just shook his head quickly, unwilling to say anything. "At least I'm here now," he said, with an air of relief.

"Yeah, but Russia…" Liet trailed off; they both knew what Russia was like.

"Living with Russia is, like, totally better than living with Germany," Poland stated firmly. The Baltic nation pulled back in shock.

"Better than with Germany?" he repeated in disbelief. He knew Germany was scary but, there was no way he could be that bad, right? "Well, let's get you to your room," he said, leading Poland upstairs to a spare bedroom, unfortunately close to Russia's. "Where are your bags?"

"I like, don't have any."

"What?"

"I just said, I don't have any."

"Well, where are your clothes then?"

"I'm wearing them."

"I mean, where are the _rest_ of them?"

"I don't have any."

"How…" Lithuania trailed off, again disbelieving. He watched Poland walk over to the bed and sit down heavily, facing the window. Lithuania waited a minute or so, shifting uncomfortably when Poland didn't move.

"Um, I'll go get some of my clothes for you to borrow," he said, backing out of the room.

"Thanks," was the soft reply, so quiet Liet almost missed it.

He returned with a pile of clothes—he and Poland were about the same size, so that wouldn't be a problem—and Poland hadn't moved from his spot facing the window. Lithuania dumped the clothes on the bed and paused, uncertain.

"Well, I'll see you at dinner then, I guess," he said. Poland only nodded. The Baltic shut the door silently on his way out, convinced that there was something seriously wrong with his friend.

--

He started to get an idea of the problem later at dinner.

Russia apparently felt Poland's arrival was a cause for celebration, as he instructed Lithuania to make a 'proper dinner', which meant Russian hospitality, which meant pulling out all the stops. This had the horrible side-effect of putting Russia in the kitchen as well, overseeing the three Baltics as they spent the rest of the afternoon cooking frantically, the air tense as they tried not to mess up under the country's cool gaze. The constantly running stove made the kitchen stifling hot, but Lithuania still had chills whenever Russia would step up behind him to watch over his shoulder.

For appetizers, the table was laden picked vegetables, salad, meat pie with cabbage, salted herrings, smoked fish, borscht with rye bread, and red and black caviar served with blini and sour cream. With appetizers would be toasts—Russia was selecting the vodka himself, five different flavors, a number that made Lithuania worry somewhat—and when the toasts were finished, the Baltics would leap to their feet and clear the table before bringing out the main course: beef stroganoff, verenyki and kapusta (the latter possibly a nod towards Poland). And after that, tea, for probably an hour if not longer, accompanied by a desert of kovrizhka, ponchiki, kisel, and lemon semolina cheesecake.

Poland came downstairs just as Lithuania finished setting everyone's place, in order of social standing: Russia at the head of the table (of course), Poland to the huge nation's right (as the 'guest of honor'), Lithuania across from him, Estonia to Poland's right, Latvia by default next to Lithuania. While Lithuania didn't like the idea of Poland sitting so close to Russia, there was nothing he could do about it; at the least the new sitting arrangement put Latvia as far from Russia as possible.

Poland watched hungrily as Estonia and Latvia finished ferrying out food. "Are we eating now?"

Liet nodded. "Here, take a seat; we just need to wait for—"

"Everyone is here, da? Xorasho!" Russia exclaimed as he walked in. The Baltics all stood and greeted him out of habit and fear; only Poland resolutely remained in his seat. Russia didn't comment, but stood at his place and filled his glass.

"A toast!" he declared, holding up his glass. "To Poland, for coming to stay with us and brave the cold winter here!"

Murmured ascent and everyone clinked glasses. Russia tossed his vodka back in a smooth, practiced motion while the Baltics drank theirs with a touch more difficulty. Poland outright choked on his. Russia smiled slightly at this, a touch of superiority in his eyes; Lithuania could easily see what Russia just did, a cleverly disguised backhand about Poland's currently helpless situation. Liet cast a sideways glance at Poland to see if he noticed, but the slight blonde was piling his plate with food, more than he could possibly eat, oblivious to or refusing to react to Russia's jab.

About five minutes into the meal, Russia caught Liet's eye and the smaller nation inwardly sighed. This was why he hated 'proper' dinners. Making sure his glass was again filled with Russia's drink of choice, he lifted the glass.

"I offer a toast. To good health; may we never lose it," he said with a meaningful look at Poland. He then nudged Estonia under the table, prompting him to give a toast as well. Tradition stated that each guest present give a toast—something Russia strictly enforced—and until everyone had toasted twice and collectively emptied a bottle of vodka, the main course could not be served. Lithuania was grateful that it wasn't a party, where everyone toasted multiple times until all the guests were quite drunk; the toasts tended to get rather ridiculous at that point. At least there were only five of them.

After Latvia toasted to a kind winter, at which Russia outright laughed, all eyes turned to Poland. The blonde finished his caviar and sour cream stuffed blin before he took up his glass.

"To Russia," he said, squarely meeting the man's violet gaze. "For like, totally letting me stay with Germany."

The Baltics jointly smothered a gasp. Evidently Poland had noticed Russia's slight, because he responded with one of his own: he implied that it was through Russia's choice that Poland was partially under Germany's control, when in reality the huge nation would have preferred to have Poland to himself. But Russia wasn't strong enough to demand all of Poland from Germany, hence the treaty.

Russia's eyes glittered dangerously, but he merely nodded once, raising his glass in salute before he down its contents. Immediately he refilled his glass.

"To camaraderie, that we all might be joined under the same goal." A promise that Poland—along with everyone else—would truly be his one day.

A few minutes later Russia started the second round of toasts with an appeal to peace—horribly ironic, all things considered—and when it came to Poland's turn Lithuania was worried that Poland would take the bait and respond with something else inflammatory, but the blond mumbled something about future harvests, the fire in his eyes dulled. Then they switched to the main course, and to Lithuania's surprise, Poland inhaled kapusta and several vernyki before he even slowed, finally stopping outright with a half a bowl of beef stroganoff left. Liet watched out of the corner of his eye as Poland sluggishly put the spoon down, staring unfocused at the table.

Abruptly, the country leapt to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in the process, and bolted for the hallway. He had just reached in when he fell to his knees and retched, losing the entirety of the meal he just ate. Lithuania stood, concerned, but Russia put a hand on his shoulder and gently forced him to sit down.

"Do not worry, I will handle this," Russia said amiably.

Liet twisted in his seat to watch Russia approach the hapless country and kneel down next to him, placing what was meant to be a comforting hand on his back; the smaller country visibly flinched.

"There, there, Poland. Has Germany not been feeding you again?" the huge nation asked. Lithuania's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He thought Poland just had too much to drink! Germany was starving him?

Russia helped the smaller country to his feet, and seeing Poland clinging pathetically to Russia for support stirred a quiet fury in Lithuania that the Baltic didn't know he possessed.

"Come, I will put you to bed. You need rest," Russia said, leading the staggering country towards the stairs. "Please continue without us; I will be back momentarily," he called over his shoulder as he left.

They listened as their footsteps faded up the stairs before casting uneasy glances at each other.

"Will he be okay?" Estonia asked uncertainly.

"With Russia, I don't know…" Lithuania muttered. Standing, he retrieved a rag from the kitchen and cleaned up the floor. Oh Poland… The Baltic wasn't sure what Germany was doing to his friend, but all he could do now was try and repair the damage. He just hoped that Russia wasn't causing more damage; Liet wouldn't put it past him to the take this opportunity to 'discipline' Poland for his backtalk during dinner…

"Sorry for the delay!" Russia said as he returned. Everyone automatically gave him a once-over for blood and found none, to their relief. The Arctic country went to his seat and immediately reached for his glass.

"To his swift recovery!" he pronounced, nodding in the direction of Poland's room.

Lithuania knocked back his shot, grimacing at the burn. He would drink to that.

---

I hope you like the continuation~! Please review and let me know!

Countries move into their conquerer's house, but Poland was taken over by both Germany and Russia. So, visiting rights, kinda.

'Cocktails to go with the breadbaskets!'- The Molotov cocktail is actually a Finnish invention. During the Winter War (which Russia lost spectacularly; look it up, the number are insane), the Allied nations were suspicious of Russia flying planes over Finland. The then current Prime Minister Molotov said they were dropping breadbaskets to counter the food shortages. In reality, they were dropping bombs. The Finnish people, vastly outnumbered, created simple incendiary devices designed to take out tanks and called them "Molotov cocktails" to go with the "Molotov breadbaskets", their nickname for the bomb casings.

Yes, I'm dead serious about the traditional Russian way of toasting. I'm Russian, and I've seen it.

New Russian vocab for this chapter:

Xorasho- good

(My apologies for the long author's notes/explanation.)


	3. Resistance

I figured I ought to post this before finals week kicks in and steals my free time.

---

After dinner and tea the Baltics began cleaning up while Russia moved to living room, bottle of vodka in hand, and put on a vinyl record of the Soviet Army Band and Chorus. Lithuania could hear the music clearly in the kitchen, and was again struck by how depressing it was, songs about dying in war and widowed mothers and giving your everything for the good of the People…

They were just finishing up when the music stopped and Russia came back to the kitchen, empty bottle in hand. He thrust the bottle at Latvia in passing, who nearly dropped it, and continued to the counter, where one of the unopened bottles from dinner stood. He grabbed it, and turned to his three countries.

"You're finished cleaning, da? To bed with you," he said, waving at hand at them. They moved to leave, and Russia stopped Lithuania. "Not you. Come with me," he said, flicking a finger against his throat. An invitation to drink. Except from Russia, it was never an invitation.

Liet's heart sank; Estonia and Latvia shot him apologetic looks as they went to their rooms. Resigned, the remaining nation followed Russia back to the living room.

"Put on the Pyatnitski Chorus," Russia ordered, retrieving two shot glasses from the liquor cabinet. Lithuania did so, carefully positioning the needle of the record player, trying to keep a tight hold on his rising fear. Russia sat heavily on the sofa, gesturing for Lithuania to join him; as soon as Liet was within reach Russia's hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him sharply forward. He fell onto the sofa and immediately whirled to face Russia, his heart in his throat, but the huge nation made no further move towards him, pouring two drinks. He held one out expectantly and Lithuania cautiously took it, hand trembling.

"To Germany's downfall; may he fail miserably in all his endeavors," Russia said quietly, tapping his glass to Lithuania's before tossing it back.

Lithuania blinked, then took his shot as well, shuddering from the burn as he felt the fluid settle warmly into his stomach. God, why did Russia have to drink so damn much?

Russia sighed, filling his glass again. "Do you know what Germany is doing?" he asked lightly, eyes on his vodka.

"No," Lithuania answered, handing over his glass when the other country held out his hand. Well, aside from the _war,_ but he suspected that wasn't what they were talking about.

"His boss, is crazy you know. Bitter over the Treaty of Versailles," Russia handed back the glass, full to the brim. "He wants to take over the world."

_And you don't?_ Lithuania thought, but wisely kept silent. "What's wrong with Poland?"

Russia chuckled, then took another shot, exhaling loudly. "His people are hurting. So, he hurts." The huge nation shrugged. "It happens."

"You said Germany wasn't feeding him," Lithuania pressed. Russia didn't answer, only nodding towards the still full glass. Ah, so that's how this game would work. Russia had answers, and wasn't going to give them up unless Lithuania went along with his requests. This would predictably result in Lithuania becoming absolutely drunk, and thus horribly vulnerable. But simply being here made him vulnerable, and he had to know. He emptied the glass quickly, wordlessly demanding an answer.

Russia smiled slightly, approving. "Da. Germany gives Poland only enough to keep him alive, and his people even less."

"Why?" Liet wondered aloud. Immediately Russia poured him another glass. Suppressing a scowl, Liet drank that one too.

"Because mass executions frighten people. And lessen the number of potential workers. So, put them in factories and don't feed them enough, and they will work themselves to death." Russia shrugged, topping off both their glasses. "Effective, and does not waste bullets." He tilted his shot at Liet in salute before downing it.

Lithuania sat stiffly, gaze glued to the man across from him. Effective? Doesn't waste bullets? Did Russia just not care?

The huge nation noticed his revulsion. "Do not look at me like that, Lithuania. _I _feed Poland," he said.

"But you won't help him," Liet pointed out bitterly, tossing back his shot with a grimace. He was drunk, he realized abruptly. First the vodka from dinner, now this? Too much.

Russia just smiled at him. "Germany and I have an agreement; you remember our trip to his house last year, da? A nonaggression pact between us."

"Yes, and you focused all that aggression at Poland instead," Liet snapped. The intelligent part of his brain, the part apparently wired for survival, was telling him that he needed to get the hell away from Russia before he said something he'd really regret, but he didn't move. "And then you decided that you could just waltz in and take me over, and my brothers, despite the fact that do so is an act of illegal war aggression and—mmph!"

Russia pressed a hand over Lithuania's mouth, pushing him down onto the sofa, smiling gently. "Hush now, Liet," he crooned, but Lithuania jerked his head away.

"Don't call me that!" he shouted angrily. That was only Poland's nickname for him!

Calmly, Russia drew back a fist and punched him; Lithuania's head snapped to the other side. Shocked into silence, he looked back to the Arctic country, and his eyes met cruel violet ones that chilled him to the bone.

Even through the vodka-induced haze he knew he had gone too far. When Russia leaned down, still smiling sweetly, Lithuania shut his eyes and turned his face aside, steeling himself for the worst.

A scream of terror rent the air and both countries froze. Russia sat back, listening thoughtfully, and Lithuania felt a flash of relief even as he wondered who the hell was—

"Noo! Please, stop! Nooo!"

Lithuania's eyes widened. Was that…?

"Ah, is Poland again," Russia grumbled, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "Go quiet him down, would you?" he said, flopping backwards to the other side of the couch, grabbing the vodka and taking a swig. He brandished the bottle towards the stairs as another blood-curdling scream broke the night. "He's too noisy…"

Lithuania clambered off the sofa, counting his blessings for the unexpected escape.

"And Lithuania?" The Baltic skid to a halt at the doorway, turning back to look at the childish nation sprawled over the couch, cheeks flush. "Keep him quiet," Russia stated, the vaguest hint of a slur in his speech. "Or I will."

Liet nodded quickly and dashed up the stairs towards the screams, wondering what had gotten into Poland. He found Estonia and Latvia pacing, agitated, by Poland's door, uncertain of what they should do. They relaxed slightly when they saw it was Lithuania rather than Russia.

"What's wrong with him?" Latvia asked, wringing his hands nervously.

"I don't know," Lithuania responded swiftly, opening the door and going in.

Poland was lying in bed tangled up in the sheets; as Liet approached, the blond flailed, nearly throwing himself off the bed in the process.

"No, please stop, stop; it hurts," he whimpered. Lithuania gaped; he was dreaming?

The nightmaring country shrieked as if shot, digging his heel in, his back arching off the bed. Remembering Russia's promise, Lithuania rushed to the bedside and grabbed his friend by the shoulders, hoping to shake him awake. Immediately Poland screamed—Liet flinched—hands scrambling for his wrists, trying to twist out of his grasp.

"Poland, wake up!" Lithuania said fanatically, shaking him roughly. "Please, Poland, before Russia comes!"

"No, please, don't hurt me, I can't- I can't- You're killing them; stop it!" Poland's terrified cries unnerved him, brought horror and a sense of being trapped creeping over him. Lithuania shook him fiercely, to no avail, and then, biting his lip in reluctance, struck Poland hard across the face.

Poland gasped, eyes snapping open. His gaze focused on Lithuania, the concern and unease in his eyes, and Poland sat up trembling, tears rolling down his face.

"Oh Poland…" Lithuania murmured and at that the frightened country sobbed, burying his face into Lithuania's chest. Wordlessly Liet held him, stroking his hair and lightly rubbing his back until Poland calmed down, catching his breath in great shudders. When Liet tried to step away Poland clung to him desperately, so he wriggled in under the covers and curled up next to him. Gradually Poland's breathing deepened and evened out, and Lithuania stared up at the darkened ceiling, wondering what they did to deserve this life.

--

They adjusted, as always. Poland threw up twice more during meals, prompting Russia to restrict the amount of food served to _everyone_ ('all things are being shared, da? Is our way') until Poland was able to eat a full meal without being sick. Then Russia gradually increased the food until they had full meals again, and the emancipated nation began putting on weight, the hollow lines in his face filling out and making him look human once more, rather than a gaunt shadow of himself.

But shadows still chased around the hollows of his eyes. Lithuania found himself running to quiet Poland's nightmarish screaming nearly every night, and he quickly came to the conclusion that spending the nights in Poland's room was better than risking a run-in with Russia in the hallway, trying to reaching the panicking country before _he_ did. The Baltic wished there was something he could do for Poland, but the blonde avoided any sly mention as to the contents of his horror-filled dreams, leaving Lithuania to speculate on what exactly had his friend shrieking terror in the dead of night.

The boy's waking demeanor had changed as well. He was quiet—not as quiet as he had been when Germany had dropped him off, but quieter than Lithuania ever remembered him. He was especially quiet when Russia was around. Still, Poland found a way to move under the heaviness of whatever was triggering the nightmares.

They had finished chores (well, the Baltics had finished chores; Poland's habit of slacking off hadn't changed) and were relaxing in the precious spare hours between the end of chores and Russia's return in the evening. Estonia was tucked into an armchair, reading; Latvia had the radio on very softly; and Poland and Lithuania were seated on the floor, chessboard between them. It brought back memories…

The front door opened and the Baltics froze, listening, trying to determine Russia's mood by sound alone. He appeared in the doorway a moment later, exhaustion ghosting over his features, but upon seeing 'his' countries, he broke into a wide grin.

"Ah, I'm glad to see you enjoying yourselves," he said happily before heading off towards the kitchen, apparently satisfied with his check-up on them.

Liet sighed softly. It was like having an overprotective homicidal father… He turned back to the game, frowning at the chessboard. Poland had improved not one whit since they last lived together, and if past experiences were any indication, the blonde would become bored with the game within the next half hour. Maybe if he was lucky he could wrap up the match before that. He shifted his knight, placing it beside a pawn, and considered his strategy.

From the direction of the kitchen, glass shattered. Lithuania paused, and heard Russia's footsteps; he reappeared at the door, his expression decidedly fixed in a smile.

"Estonia! Latvia!" he said firmly, and the two nations were out of their seats and to him immediately, a faint tremble just barely visible. Russia grabbed Estonia's wrist—he flinched noticeably—and pressed several crumpled rubles into his hand.

"Go to the store and bring back as much vodka as you can carry," he instructed amiably. Lithuania's heart sank. Please let this not be about a party.

Russia watched the two duck past and leave; when the door shut, his cold eyes slid back to the remaining countries, and suddenly the Baltic knew this was not about a party at all.

A sense of foreboding fell over him as he climbed to his feet, Poland mirroring him. Russia walked over to them, his movements precise.

"A funny thing just happened now. Do you know what it was?" he queried.

Lithuania stayed perfectly quiet. Russia was in that dangerous state, that terrifying stillness Liet knew heralded a violent outburst, and he'd be damned if he would draw attention to himself.

"I went to have a drink, but my open bottle had changed to water," the Arctic nation said calmly. "All of my bottles, in fact. One had this note." He held up a small scrap of paper on which was scrawled, in broken Russian, '_water's better for you anyways_'.

Lithuania stared. He recognized that handwriting. But how…? When did he have time? During chores?

"Do either of you have anything to say to this?" Russia asked pleasantly, glancing between them.

Poland mumbled something under his breath and Liet choked back a gasp.

"Chto eto, Polshka?" Russia inquired sweetly.

_Oh please, Poland, for the love of god, don't repeat—_

Poland looked up, answering loudly, "I said, serves you right, you stupid drunk."

Russia was on him in an instant, knocking him backwards into a side table—Poland crying out in pain as his head collided with the corner—and onto the ground, pinning the smaller nation as he proceeded to pummel him. Lithuania grabbed his arm—"No, Russia, stop!"—but the huge country shook him off roughly, sending him stumbling onto the chessboard. Desperate to help his friend, Lithuania tackled Russia, the force of his lunge carrying them both off the blonde.

Russia twisted, slamming Liet into the floor with enough force to momentarily stun him, and followed up with a short quick punch to the gut. The wind rushed out of him and he groaned, curling up in agony, but Russia had him by the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet. Lithuania caught a glimpse of Poland, already bleeding from the nose and lips, lying dazed on the ground; then Russia dragged Liet bodily from of the room.

Wrenching open a closet, Russia shoved Lithuania in and slammed the door, cutting off the light. Ignoring the pain in his stomach, the bruised country threw his weight into the door; it didn't budge.

"Let me out!" he shouted, rattling the door knob.

"Hush, Lithuania," he heard Russia coo quietly from the other side. "I'll let you out once I finish teaching Poland not to touch other people's things."

Fear seized him. "Poland, run!" he screamed in the boy's native tongue, pounding on the door. Russia erupted into laughter. "Get up and run!"

"Running never helped anyone," the crazed nation sing-songed as he walked away. A moment later there was a cry of pain, which quickly morphed into agonized shrieks.

"Ah, no! Noo! Nn, ah-… St- Stop it!! Agh! Liet! Liet!!"

The trapped country fell to his knees in the dark, hands clasped over his ears, sobbing uncontrollably.

--

It was not the only incident.

"Latvia, have you seen Poland?" Liet asked as he finished washing the lunch dishes.

From the shorter country's place on the step-stool, he was taller than his older brother. "I don't know," he answered without turning around, putting away a cup. Liet thought he caught an undercurrent of… something there, but he couldn't be sure.

Lithuania left the kitchen, looking for the blond. After his stunt a month ago, Liet had been wary about letting Poland out of his sight for extended periods of time. Not that he thought Poland would really try something like that again, not when some of the bruises were just finally fading, but he'd rather be safe than sorry.

He paused on the stairs, glancing back towards the door where everyone's shoes were lined up like scuffy soldiers. Russia's were missing—he had been gone since yesterday—and so were Poland's.

Frowning, Lithuania grabbed his coat and scarf, pulling on his boots and bundling up to face the bitterly cold winter outside. He opened the door and sucked in a gasp of freezing air, coughing as his body complained about the sudden temperature difference. The sunlight reflecting of the snow was blinding, and he had to wait a full minute for his eyes to stop watering. Blinking away tears, he saw Poland's form crouched by the gate.

"Poland? What are you doing out here?" Lithuania called, carefully stepping down an icy porch step.

Poland jumped, slipped, and fell squarely on his arse with a small yelp. Liet laughed, and was cut off sharply by a well-placed snowball.

"Poland!" Lithuania gasped as snow somehow fell between his scarf and his skin. He quickly gathered up a snowball, compacting it as a second projectile landed inches away; he lobbed the makeshift shell at the blond and managed to take his hat off.

Poland shrieked happily and ducked behind the fence, rapidly making snowballs. Liet glanced about quickly and realized he was caught in the open; there was no decent defensive structure on this side of the fence. He leapt off of the porch and landed in a deep snow drift, running to the evergreen shrubs that lined the house-side of the fence, his speed hampered by the snow cover. From his position a few feet down, Poland launched a barrage over the fence, half landing wide. Lithuania grabbed the snowballs that landed closest, throwing them back quickly, before jumping to his feet and charging Poland's position. Poland saw the advance and pummeled him with snowballs, but Lithuania continued his rush near-blind and tackled him into a snow bank.

They laughed as snow fell over them, hiding them from the world. It felt so familiar, the camaraderie, the easy laughter. For a moment, buried in the snow together, their breath billowing out like white clouds between them, Lithuania could almost pretend that they were home, back when they were one land.

Lithuania sat up, shaking the snow off himself. "That was fun," he said smiling, sweating under his layers of clothes despite the extreme cold. Poland grinned, propping himself up on the snow bank.

"You like, totally have to make me hot chocolate now," he ordered.

Lithuania laughed. "I don't even know if we _have_ cocoa po—" he broke off, a shocked stared fixed a few feet past Poland.

A few feet away next to the fence stood a truly impressive collection of empty vodka bottles, and affixed to the fence behind them was a sign which read, 'This is what a problem looks like'.

"Poland! What are you doing?!" Lithuania demanded, wrenching his eyes away.

Said country slouched deeper into the snow. "Just making a point," he muttered sullenly.

"You're going to get yourself killed!" He didn't understand; was Poland _trying_ to get beaten up? "Poland, why do you keep doing things like this?"

"I'm not going to sit here and do nothing!" Poland shouted in his native tongue. "You don't know what it's like, shunted between the two of them like they own me! I'm my own person! I have just as much a right to freedom as everyone else! But then _they_ step in and try to destroy everything that makes me unique, my language, my history, my _people_! I won't let them!"

"But Poland," Lithuania tried to reason with him, "little things like that won't change anything; it'll just—"

"I have to try!" Poland yelled, his voice breaking. "I have to _try_, Liet. How can my people have hope with nothing to give them hope? I have to try. I have to. Like, no matter what happens."

Lithuania sighed softly. "Poland, I—"

But the sadness had bled out of Poland's face, to be replaced by resignation as he stared over Lithuania's shoulder. Swallowing thickly as dread settled over him, the Baltic looked back.

Russia stood just out into the street, Vintovka rifle in hand, blood stains splattered over his uniform, gazing at the sign on the fence. For a moment, no one moved.

"Run," Liet whispered quietly. Poland remained frozen.

Russia's violet eyes flicked over to where they sat.

"Run," Lithuania repeated, louder. "Poland, run!" He scrambled to his feet, dragging Poland off the ground as they staggered into the yard. Lithuania risked a glance over his shoulder and felt his heart stop—Russia lifting the rifle to bear, lining up his shot—

Poland stumbled, yanking Liet down with him; the shot rang over head and ricocheted off the house. Lithuania focused his attention on the door, half dragging Poland with him as the blond regained his balance; another shot exploded in the snow just ahead of them—Russia's aim was better than that, was he just toying with them? Liet ran for the steps, practically falling into the house as he opened the door. Poland dove inside a heartbeat after him as a bullet shattered the porch light, and they slammed the door shut.

"Go hide, Poland, quickly—Wait! Take off your boots; you'll leave a water trail."

Poland struggled to kick off his boots as Lithuania pulled off his scarf and coat; he gave him a little shove down the hallway, whispering. "I'll hold him as long as I can—"

"I won't run from him!"

"_Please_, Poland, just go!"

Poland gave him a look Lithuania couldn't quite decipher before darting into the living room, past the two Baltics hovering there nervously, uncertain what to make of the situation. Liet turned back to the door, intent on locking it, but it slammed open before he got the chance.

Lithuania started, "Russia, please, don't hurt h—" but the heavy wooden stock of the rifle collided forcefully with his skull and the world went black.

---

Throughout WWII and Soviet Russia's occupation, Poland had a large and _organized_ resistance, the Polish Underground State (ie, a _full government system_), against both Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia. Poland's little stunts here are representative of that resistance. Aside from inconvinces like sabatoging railway systems and such, they pulled off larger stunts like the Czortkow Uprising in 1940.

Vocab:

Chto eto, Polshka?- What was that, Poland?

So, what do you think?


	4. Dissension among Brothers

And the train wreck continues... (Train wreck in that this can't end well for Liet and Poland.) *sweatdrop* Enjoy.

---

He came to slowly, with a fantastic headache hammering an ice pick into his brain. Groaning, he blinked away unconsciousness and his room slide into focus.

"Are you awake?"

His heart skipped a beat even as he recognized Estonia's voice. He and Latvia were sitting next to the bed, looking worried and tired and sad. Latvia held out a bowl of soup in offering, and Lithuania sat up, wincing as the ice pick wedged itself in particularly deep.

"Where's Poland? Is he okay?"

Latvia's face crumpled, the concern abruptly buried by a sharp flash of resentment, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by carefully crafted neutrality. "He's in his room."

"Is he hurt?" Liet asked, disregarding the sudden shift. He blinked, and swiftly corrected, "How badly is he hurt?"

Estonia looked away. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Russia's placed him in solitary confinement. We're not allowed to see or talk to him, and he's not allowed to leave his room." He paused for a moment. "I'm not sure he _could_ leave his room, if he wanted to. It sounded… bad."

"I have to go see him," Lithuania said, sitting up far faster than his body could handle; he swayed, the room passing out of focus.

Estonia put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Russia's in a bad mood. He came home covered in blood; you must have seen that earlier. Besides, you shouldn't walk yet."

Lithuania shook him off as the wave of dizziness passed. "No, I have to see if he's alright—"

"Why is it always Poland?" Latvia shouted suddenly. "He's all you ever think about, the one you talk to, the one you spend time with. Do we not exist anymore? Is Poland more important to you because you use to live together?"

"Latvia—" But the Baltic nation continued right over him.

"I thought we were supposed to be brothers! But we're not, are we? We don't even share the same language or culture! The only thing that ties us together is Russia!"

The name brought a ringing silence to the room. Latvia glared resolutely at the floor, blushing furiously, hands clenched into tight fists. Lithuania had never seen him like this, and wondered how they could have reached this point.

"Latvia, we _are _brothers. We might be different, but we're still brothers. We share the same roots. But," and here was the difficult part. "Poland's really struggling right now; I have to help him."

"Right," Latvia said bitterly. "Because the rest of us aren't struggling at all." Without another word, he set the soup down on the chair and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Lithuania turned to Estonia. "Does it really come across that way?" he asked desperately. Estonia was the more logical of the two; surely he would be able to see that Liet was just trying to help out his friend. He wasn't trying to shut them out.

But Estonia wouldn't meet his gaze. "I'll go warm up your soup again; it's gotten cool by now," he said quietly, taking the bowl and following Latvia out.

The click of a door latch never sounded so loud.

--

Estonia returned shortly after with soup. They sat in awkward silence, the sounds of eating thunderously loud. When he finished, Estonia took the bowl and left, leaving Lithuania to his thoughts. He wondered if Russia put him in solitary confinement as well or if they were just upset with him. He would prefer confinement, actually.

Judging from the lack of light outside, night had alright ready fallen; the clock confirmed that it was eight fifteen. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and cautiously stood up; the world tilted threateningly, but righted itself. Slowly making his way to the door, he paused as he passed the mirror, his somber green eyes straying to an angry red cut partially hidden by his hair. It was the first obvious mark of injury he'd acquired since coming to live with Russia again.

He was certain it wouldn't be the last.

Particularly since he was currently planning to go see Poland in direct defiance of Russia's orders. At this hour, Russia would probably be downstairs listening to his horribly depressing music and drinking. Or in his office listening to his horribly depressing music and drinking. Hopefully he was downstairs, as it would greatly decrease Liet's chance of running into him while he tried to break into Poland's room.

He grabbed a paper clip from the desk, his soon-to-be make-shift lock pick, before pressing an ear to the door. All was quiet. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and crept into the darkened hall. The faint strains of music reached his ears; good, Russia was downstairs. He tip-toed down the hallway, one hand on the wall to steady himself against any potential dizzy spells, and came up to Poland's room. Bending the paperclip out of shape, he set about trying to jimmy the lock, a skill he had never really successfully mastered. Maybe fate would be kind and give him a break.

What felt like an infinite amount of time later but really couldn't have been more than two minutes tops, Lithuania was close to panicking, desperate to hear the lock click open, convinced Russia was going to walk up the stairs any moment and see him. Without thinking he tried the door anyways; it opened smoothly.

Lithuania stared. The door wasn't locked at all. And in that moment another horrible fact dawned on him, that Russia didn't need to bother locking doors to keep people out, the very force of his words was enough; the second revelation followed closely on the heels of the first, that if it had been anyone else other than Poland, Russia's word would have indeed been enough. The thought both frightened and saddened him. He slipped quietly into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

The room was dark; Liet could just make out a figure lying in bed, and padded over silently in socked feet.

"Poland?" he whispered.

No reply. Sleeping? Please, let him be sleeping.

"Polska?" he tried in Polish. He flicked on the bedside lamp and gasped.

Bandages wound around his head, stained dark in several places; his lip was split, his cheek badly bruised, and one eye was swollen completely shut. Dark parallel lines stood out sharply against the pale skin of Poland's neck, and Liet realized with horror that Russia must've had him by the throat. The sight was so awful that for a moment he wondered wildly whether or not the huge nation hadn't accidentally or maybe even intentionally killed him, and the fear was so strong he laid a hand on the boy's chest, praying to feel a heartbeat or a breath.

Poland grimaced, eyes fluttering open. "That hurts," he croaked.

Liet yanked his hand back as if burnt. "Oh, Poland, look what he did to you…"

"I don't wanna," the blond wheezed, trying to smile. Lithuania suspected that Poland's windpipe hadn't yet recovered from the abuse. "I feel like total shit."

_You look like total shit_. He didn't want to consider the damage that must be hidden under the clothes. "He says you're in solitary confinement."

"You're here."

"Poland, you have to promise me you won't pull anymore stupid stunts," Lithuania said.

The frown was certainly effective when coupled with the rest of the injuries. "I told you, I'm like, not going to stop."

"But _why_, Poland?" Lithuania pleaded uncomprehendingly, frustrated that he couldn't get Poland to see what a horrible idea it was. "Why? You can't win; Russia's bigger and stronger than we are. There's nothing we can do. All you're doing is giving him an excuse to beat you!"

"Do you even know what Russia's doing to me? What Germany's doing?" Poland demanded, his voice harsh from bruising.

The seriousness in his voice made the Baltic pause. "Germany has those work camps; Russia keeps sending people to the kulaks, and the Gulags in Siberia," he ventured. He could feel the ache of those places from his people, quietly ever present in the back of his mind.

Poland giggled, a breathy hysterical sound. "I wish they were work camps, I wish. I thought Germany was worse than Russia, but Russia's like, trying really hard to catch up or something. It hurts; I feel so empty," he said, choking up as he struggled to speak. "Today- hurt- so badly. He's killing people, so many people—"

"Russia's not in the war," Lithuania said, confused, and Poland slammed a fist into the soft mattress.

"Russia doesn't have to be in the fucking war! He doesn't have to be in anything; he's fucking crazy and his boss's is fucking crazy and we'll be crazy too before he's done with us." Poland broke off in a sharp sound, wincing from pain, a hand shifting under the sheets to his ribs.

Liet reached out imploringly, "Poland, you're hurting yourself, don't—", and the blond cut him off.

"Ask him what he did today!" he gasped through the pain. "Ask him what he did today, Liet. Ask him how many of my people he killed. How many—god, I feel so empty; it must have been so many…" Poland squeezed his eye shut, tears trickling down the side of his bruised face. He sniffed, then spasmed slightly, curling inwards momentarily. "Ah, that bastard; I like, can't even cry without it hurting."

The look on his face as he half-heartedly grinned contrasted so sharply with the pain his eyes that Lithuania felt himself tear up as well. He resolved to ask Russia, no matter how idiotic the idea was.

"Try to sleep," Liet murmured, stroking what he could of Poland's hair. "I'll be back when I can get away again."

Poland smiled faintly. "Lately I've been worrying that like, when I go to sleep, I'm totally not going to wake up again."

There was nothing he could say to that. The Baltic nation ducked his head so his friend couldn't see him cry.

--

"Lithuania! I'm glad to see you're awake. Come join us," Russia greeted him with a smile, no apology, no hint of remorse for what he did, as if the event has been wiped clear from his mind. But Lithuania knew that Russia remembered; Russia was not much younger than Liet, but old in his own right, and he remembered his past. His past was what both made and kept him crazy.

Estonia and Latvia didn't turn in their seats to look at him; Liet hoped this was because turning one's back to Russia was incredibly stupid and not because they were still angry. Russia sat on the sofa opposite them, on the other side of the coffee table, and Lithuania sat next to him because he knew Russia liked the seating to be even and would ask him to move anyway.

"We're playing Darok," Russia informed him, not even asking if the Baltic would like to join before he dealt Lithuania a hand. Estonia shot him a quick, questioning glance; Liet considered answering him aloud in his native language, the idea of rebellion still on his mind, but quickly rejected the idea on the grounds that Russia was right next to him, in a bad mood—oh god, he was still wearing his bloodstained uniform—and Liet didn't know how much Lithuanian the frigid nation could speak. Telling him about the visit to Poland's room was not high on his list of things to do.

He took the cards silently, glancing at the shot glasses on the table; obviously a drinking game, one that Estonia and Latvia were losing, Latvia especially, judging by their flushed faces. Russia had introduced him to Darok, 'the fool', years ago; the goal was to empty your hand through attacks on the player to your left (which for Lithuania was Latvia, he belatedly realized). In order to beat an attack, a player had to counter each card with one of a higher number within that suit, or any card from the trump suit, determined randomly at the start of each game. If a player failed to defend, then they took the entire discard pile into their hand and couldn't attack on their turn. Other players could assist the attacker at any time by laying down extra attack cards, provided the defender had already played a card of equal or higher strength. The game was unique because the real point wasn't to win so much as it was to not lose, especially when Russia ran it as a drinking game: each time a person emptied their hand, the remaining players had to take a shot each.

Russia flipped the top card of the deck, revealing a four of hearts, the trump suit for the game; the card itself was so disgustingly ironic Lithuania wondered if Russia hadn't set that up on purpose. Then the huge country turned to him and laid down a seven of clubs and a seven of diamonds.

Lithuania countered with a nine of clubs and an eight of diamonds, trying to figure out if Russia was going easy on him or if that was really the best he had. He played a pair of fours to Latvia, who easily countered with a nine and a ten that would have been fine had Russia not added a ten of hearts, which Latvia couldn't defeat. The small country took the discard pile and passed on his attack towards Estonia, his mouth set into a dark little frown.

_He knows. _Lithuania thought suddenly, fearfully, as Russia grinned triumphantly over the youngest Baltic's loss. _He knows we had a fight and now he's trying to drive the wedge deeper by making it look like he and I are teaming up on Latvia._ It was an absurd idea, but not absurd enough for him to discount it.

Estonia put down a jack of hearts and a jack of spades; Russia counted with a queen of hearts and a two of hearts. Lithuania added the queen of spades to the attack and the Arctic nation smiled coldly as he took the discard pile and refrained from attacking.

Play continued. Lithuania made a conscious effort to make his attacks on Latvia easily conquerable, but Russia kept complicating things by adding high value hearts to the attack. Estonia got out first, prompting everyone else to take a shot, and the next round Russia attacked Liet, Latvia added a jack of hearts to the assault, which forced Lithuania to fold and accept the discard pile.

Latvia set down three queens, with Russia beat with hearts; Liet almost played the ace of hearts, a trump card Russia couldn't beat, but forcing him to take all those queens would probably come back to haunt him, so he held back. He played a pair of fives to Latvia, trying to catch his eye, hoping to tell him by look if not by words that he wasn't angry, that he wasn't trying to make him lose, but Latvia refused to meet his gaze.

Latvia won the hand and gave Russia four tens to defeat; Russia laid down jacks and queens, emptying his hand and getting out. Now Latvia would be forced to focus all of his attacks on Lithuania if he wanted to win. The smile twisting Russia's lips as he handed Lithuania his shot was so sickeningly sweet he was convinced that the violet-eyed nation was definitely doing this on purpose.

"Since the game is down to only two players, every time someone loses a fight they take a shot," Russia pronounced, modifying the rules.

Oh yes. Definitely doing it on purpose.

The end game was brutal. As much as Lithuania didn't want to appear angry at Latvia, he was not willing to lose, especially now that Russia had added the new shot rule. He used the lower value hearts to counter the powerful attacks, saving the higher cards for his attacks and then threw down the high value hearts in a nigh unbeatable assault. He had to take four more shots before he managed to get out, but that was far better than Latvia's nine.

The blond-haired Baltic bought the losing shot up to his mouth and blanched; the glass hit the ground and shattered as Latvia stumbled away from the table and was sick. Russia howled with laughter, clapping delightedly, having consumed enough vodka to push him over the perpetually tipsy edge into full-out drunk. While Estonia picked the whimpering nation off the floor and led him out of the room, Liet grabbed a rag from the kitchen and cleaned up, almost losing it himself.

"Come sit with me," Russia called as Liet reentered the living room, gesturing next to him on the sofa. The Baltic obeyed and Russia pulled him close, draping an arm over his shoulders; Liet shifted, nervous, but Russia ignored it.

"To your victory," he toasted, knocking back yet more vodka. Lithuania wondered absently how much vodka it'd take to give the huge country alcohol poisoning.

"I didn't win; Estonia got out first," he pointed out.

Russia dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "Bah. Either way poor little Latvia lost. That boy really cannot hold his liqueur, can he?" And he laughed again.

Latvia had also consumed over ten shots of vodka in a very short amount of time, but apparently that didn't much matter. An idea seized Liet. "I want a prize for winning," he blurted suddenly.

Surprise flashed across Russia's features, to be replaced by an approving look. "And what do you want as a prize?" he asked, pouring himself another glass.

Lithuania was sorely tempted to say, an end to Poland's solitary confinement, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. Drunk Russia might be slightly more lenient than usual, but he was also more easily angered. Liet was treading thin ice already, and that request would be like running straight for the open patch in the ice sheet.

"I want to know what you did today," he said instead.

Russia's expression became guarded; even drunk, he knew a potential trap when he heard one. "I had work to do in Smolensk; there were rebels hiding out in the forest," he answered with a shrug. "Is unfortunate, but must be done."

Lithuania knew the city of Smolensk—it used to be his, back in the fifteen century. He lost it to Russia in 1514, so in 1611, he and Poland, by then a commonwealth, waged a twenty-month siege to get it back, only for Russia to recapture Smolensk in 1654. He finally let Russia keep the silly place in 1667; it wasn't worth another war to get it back.

God, what had happened to him? To Poland? They used to be able to not only fight but _defeat_ Russia, and not just Russia. They routinely defeated Prussia and held Austria at bay; hell, Belarus and Ukraine used to live with _him_ back then! He supposed Russia was having his sweet revenge now…

"Why so sad, Litva?" Russia queried, nudging him gently.

"My name's Lietuvos," he muttered petulantly.

"Litva," Russia repeated, and the Baltic sighed.

"Just thinking about the rebels," he lied. Poland had said he felt empty; he supposed there probably were a decent number of his people in Smolensk, but he couldn't imagine that they hadn't succumbed to the rigorous Russification policy by now. Lithuania, knowing that it wasn't safe and being too tired to care, rested his head on the taller country's shoulder.

"Don't let it bother you, dorogoy moy. In time these things will stop, and then your friend will not hurt as much, da?" Russia said, petting his hair lightly.

"They were Polish?" Liet murmured, the soft sensation coupled with the alcohol lulling him into a dazed state.

"Da, they were Poland's," Russia agreed. "My orders were very specific. No one died who didn't need to."

Lithuania felt a chill run down his spine despite the well-heated house. No one died who didn't need to. As if it was a comforting thought. "And when do they need to?" he wondered quietly, staring blankly at the bloodstains on Russia's coat. "When they won't listen to you?"

Russia chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "No, Litva," he said, planting a tender kiss on the top of Liet's head before answering, "When they won't listen to reason."

"Your reason," Liet specified, just loud enough for Russia to hear him.

"Da, I suppose. Soon to be everyone's reason," Russia replied amiably, tilting the smaller country's head back, exposing his neck. Liet's heartbeat quickened, rapid shallow breaths betraying his sudden fear; he kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, knowing that to make eye contact with Russia now would destroy what little calm he was managing to maintain.

The huge country shifted to face him, leaning forward to ghost a kiss across his bared throat, and Lithuania's breath caught as his eyes fluttered shut.

"Please, Russia," the Baltic pleaded, and yes, he knew begging was pitiful but he couldn't help it, he was so scared. "Please—"

Russia shoved him down hard on the sofa and stood, towering over the trembling country. "Be more specific—please what?—or I won't stop next time," he said coolly, eyes like ice, before turning on his heel and leaving the room without a backwards glance.

Lithuania stared at the spot Russia had been—_next time_, the promise of a 'next time'—before he slowly laid his head down, terrified sobs racking his body as he tried not to consider what had just happened, and what would probably happen in the future.

---

Ah, Latvia, Estonia, don't resent Liet because he hangs out with Poland. He still cares about you guys!

Darok is a fun card game~ I'm not sure how well the scene came out though.

The 'taking care of rebels in the forest near Smolensk' was mostly a lie on Russia's part. What he's actually talking about it is the Katyn Massacre, when Soviet soldiers were given orders execute all members of the Polish Officers Corps; 22000 people were killed in only a few months' time in 1940 and buried in mass graves out in the woods.

Lithuania remembering when he and Poland were the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, one of the largest countries in 16th-17th century Europe. They were pretty damn awesome back then. Their Husaria winged cavalry units were pretty kick-ass~ It looked like a legion of angels were descending upon their enemies! XD Trust Poland to come up with something so dramatic.

Russian vocab:

dorogoy moy- my dear (this is the masculine form of the phrase; the feminine version would be doragaya moya)


	5. Vanishing

So I had originally thought this would be the second to last chapter. Now I'm not so sure...

---

The snowy white plain stretched out unbroken in every direction, the grey sky reaching down to brush the horizon far off in the distance. Lithuania knew he had to find shelter, the sun was setting and he really didn't want to bury himself in the snow to stay warm come nightfall. But he had to find Poland first; he was out there somewhere and Liet had to find him before it was too late. So he trudged onwards through the snow, eyes scanning the endless white for a sign of the blond.

After what felt like hours, he saw a dark figure in the distance; relief washed over him as he quickened his pace, squinting against the whipping wind. But as he neared, he realized it wasn't Poland, was too short to be Poland.

It was a small boy, bundled up in skins and furs; he was crouched down in the snow, shaping rabbits and birds with bare hands. He didn't look up as Lithuania approached, totally absorbed in what he was doing. What was a kid doing out in this frozen wasteland alone?

"Hello?" Liet called, coming to a stop a few feet behind him.

The boy jumped, whirling around to look up at the Baltic with bright amethyst eyes. _Oh my god…_

"Russia?" he asked in disbelief.

The small child studied him warily, as if he couldn't decide whether the newcomer was safe or not. A hand strayed to a simple leather necklace, to the carved pendant shaped like a bear, while the other drifted to a bone-hilted blade at his waist.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice high and soft, like powdered snow whispering over the plains.

He didn't understand; what was going on? "Lithuania," he answered, then immediately corrected, "Lietuvos," realizing that he had given the Russian variant out of habit.

The wind blew, chilling Liet to the bone; little Russia tensed, eyes sweeping the plain quickly.

"Winter's coming," he said, the fear audible in his words. For a moment, the Baltic thought he meant the season, but the wind gusted again, and a voice whispered in his ear _come you to pester my son?_

"Winter's coming," little Russia repeated, and this time it sounded like a plea. He reached out and took Liet by the hand; Lithuania could feel his icy fingers even through the thick gloves. Russia tugged him forward, urging him to follow. "Quickly, before he finds yo—"

Wind slammed into them, knocking Lithuania clean off his feet. Pushing himself out of the deep snow drift, he looked up to see if Russia was alright, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Russia?" Liet called, his voice ringing out in the silence.

A faint sobbing sound reached his ears, a little boy crying as if from very far away.

"Russia!" he shouted, climbing to his feet. Where had he gone? There was no place to hide out here.

"Da, Litva?"

Lithuania spun around to face the speaker; Russia tramped towards him, full grown and exactly as the Baltic remembered. He smiled serenely despite the blood soaking his clothes—he was staining the snow red as he walked—and in his right hand he clutched-

"Poland!" Lithuania shouted, seeing the battered body Russia was dragging along by the hair.

The huge nation glanced down briefly. "Da, poor little Polshka," he said with a sigh, the country's blond hair sliding out of his fingers as he let Poland collapse to the ground. The boy didn't move. "I hate it when I get orders like that, don't you?"

"What did you do?" Liet sobbed, falling to his knees in disbelieving horror. "What did you do?!"

"Carried out orders. Perhaps it would not have happened had he behaved, da?" he replied with a shrug, nudging the body with his foot. "Still, there is one last thing to take care of yet."

Something about the tone warned Liet, got him to wrench his eyes away from his friend's bloody form in time to see Russia draw the revolver and grab him by the collar, lifting him to his feet.

"No, Russia, don't!" Liet shrieked, but Russia placed the cold muzzle under his chin and Liet's words failed him completely.

"Hush, Litva," Russia whispered with a smile, violet eyes gleaming with a twisted mix of joy and sorrow. Liet couldn't look away if he wanted to. "We're the only ones left now, and this way Poland can't steal any more of your attention."

And _Latvia_ let go of his collar and stepped back, leveling the gun with Liet's heart and—

"Latvia, wait!"

BANG

--

"No!"

Lithuania lurched upright in his bed, eyes wild with terror. For a moment, he didn't move, frozen by the abrupt change. Oh god. A dream. A nightmare. He glanced around the room, taking a quiet comfort from the familiar sight, the grey light of morning filtering in through the curtains as he dressed.

It had snowed over night, a touch more than a half a meter. The Baltics dragged out breakfast as long as possible, knowing that as soon as they finished Russia would order them outside to shovel the porch and walkway. Sure enough, after Russia had brought Poland his meal—the boy was still trapped up in his room under solitary confinement a week later—he told them to go.

They bundled up in multiple layers to fight off the cold, gloves and fur hats and heavy boots. Liet wrapped a second scarf over his head, tying it under his chin like he had seen Belarus do on a few occasions; Russia laughed, saying he looked like a babushka, but it was warm so Liet really didn't give a damn. When they tried to open the door it wouldn't budge despite their best efforts, and Lithuania was contemplating the window when Russia noticed their plight and came over. Heaving his weight against the door, he managed to wedge it open a crack, a snow drift spilling into the hallway; the Baltics obediently filed out past him and got to work.

And it was back-breaking work, not because there was a huge area to shovel, but because there was so much snow. Lithuania found himself remembering with great fondness those big trucks America had, snow plows he had called them. At least the physical labor kept them all warm; hats came off within a few minutes of working, followed by the scarves. By the time they were done they were sweating, though in the course of returning the shovels to the shed and collecting the clothing articles scattered about, they were chilled once more.

When they trudged, exhausted, back inside, Russia had a surprise waiting for them.

"Litva, Estonia, Latvia, come here!"

They stripped out of their heavy winter wear and, sharing cautious glances, went to the kitchen.

Russia smiled happily at them. "I made hot cocoa for you!" he announced, gesturing for them to sit down at the kitchen table. They did so, nervous and wary of a trap; Russia brought them each a steaming mug of hot chocolate and stood back. Lithuania realized he was waiting for their reactions and took a sip; deliciously thick cocoa, milk and chocolate and powdered sugar and egg and… rum? From the look on Estonia's face, he could tasted it too, the alcoholic warmth that lingered after the initial heat. Trust Russia to make certain that the hot chocolate would be particularly bracing. Still…

"It's very good, Russia, thank you," Liet said, taking another sip as the huge country beamed. Hm, it wasn't overly alcoholic; perhaps Russia wasn't trying to get them drunk, just pleasantly tipsy. Then again, rum was a luxury item here, so maybe he was just being practical.

Russia brought out tea cookies, looking on with satisfaction as they savored the rare treat in silence, warmth returning to their frozen fingers and toes. If Lithuania overlooked Russia's domineering presence, he could almost pretend that things were okay, that they were all friends enjoying an afternoon together, _real_ friends, not the forced friendship into which Russia pressured them.

Latvia finished his cocoa and sighed contentedly; Russia noticed.

"Would you like some more, Latvia?" he asked.

Estonia caught Liet's eye; oh no, the rum in it, Latvia don't—

"Da, puzhalsta!" the small country chirped, surrendering his mug. It was only incredible will that prevented Estonia and Lithuania from exclaiming 'Latviaaaa!'

"Would either of you like more?" the Arctic nation asked over his shoulder as he added a gratuitous splash of rum.

They declined politely and thankfully Russia didn't force the matter. He did, however, immediately send them back outside to run errands, quite possibly in punishment for refusing. Lithuania hoped Latvia would still be okay by the time they returned.

The list Russia gave them was primarily food stuffs, which meant not only a trip to the market, but trips all over the city. When Lithuania had first started living with Russia again, he had been confused as to why the stores were nearly empty yet people seemed to have enough food. He quickly learned that this was because food could not really be bought, but it could always be acquired. Russia had cultivated an extensive network of contacts from whom he could obtain whatever he was looking for, and of course, being a 'high ranking military/government official' with special privileges himself, he returned the favor. Lithuania found himself fondly remembering those stores America had, supermarkets full of food…

The sun was setting by the time they got back, laden down with groceries. They discovered Latvia passed out on the sofa downstairs, a darkening shiner decorating his eye and (what Lithuania prayed was not) a bite mark on his neck. After depositing the groceries in the kitchen, they carried Latvia up the stairs and put him to bed, struggling to change him out of his uniform.

"Do you think he had too much?" Liet murmured, propping up the unconscious country. "Or…"

Estonia slipped Latvia out of his maroon military coat and paused for a moment, considering, before pulling up the white undershirt. Liet stifled a gasp at the sight.

Angry bruises covered the boy's torso, more black and blue than pale unblemished skin.

"A little of both, I think," Estonia said sadly, laying Latvia down. As he tucked the blanket around him, Liet's eyes drifted to the smallest Baltic's face, not so much serene as sleeping faces are usually described but blank, as if he had vanished in his sleep and left behind an empty shell.

They returned to the kitchen and put away the groceries; Lithuania was always surprised at how much food Russia could cram into the pantry: there were shelves of glass jars filled with fruit preserves and vegetables; bins brimming with buckwheat and rye flours; cured bacon and ham hanging from the ceiling. Ropes of garlic, wild mushrooms, and drying summer fruits looped along the shelves; root vegetables were laid out in low boxes; and sacks of salt and wheat stood by the door along with crystallized cones of sugar. Barrels of cucumbers and apples in brine supported various mustards, herbs, and spices, and there was a special table set aside for fish preparation. A whole corner was dedicated to dairy products, cheeses and butters, while another corner was devoted to brandies and vodkas and bottles of rum. Food stores weren't as high as they usually were, but then again it was winter. Although, hell, even in the summer Russia stocked up like famine was imminent.

Actually, famine was kinda imminent most of the time…

"I'm going to go check on Poland," Lithuania said to Estonia in an undertone as they finished, as if Russia could hear him from his office upstairs.

Estonia looked at him, sadness in his eyes. "There is no talking you out of this risk-taking," he said, a statement, not a question.

Liet managed a tight smile. "Sorry," he murmured, leaving the kitchen and creeping up the stairs. He had been sneaking visits to Poland everyday of the nation's confinement, and while he was certain that a week straight was definitely pushing his luck, he certainly wasn't going to stop now.

The door at the far end of the hall, Russia's office, was closed, a sliver of light peeking out at the bottom; that coupled with the music—the depressingly patriotic Soviet Army Band and Chorus again—told Lithuania that Russia was indeed there. It made him incredibly nervous to sneak into Poland's room right under his nose, but so long as they were quiet and Liet kept a sharp ear trained for any sounds of Russia's approached, he'd be fine.

The door still wasn't locked—why would it be? No one had given Russia any reason to change his habit (that he knew of). Liet slipped into the room quickly, shutting the door softly before turning with a soft greeting, "Hey, Poland—"

But the blond wasn't sitting on his bed like he had been the last few days. Or at the desk. His eyes swept the room, but Poland was nowhere to be seen.

"If you're planning on jumping out to spook me, that's a really bad idea," he muttered quietly as he edged cautiously into the room. If Poland did jump out and startled him enough that he yelled, well, things could go very poorly indeed. The sensible part of his mind told him that Russia probably wouldn't be able to hear anything unusual over his music, but the paranoid part of his mind, the part that worked overtime to keep him alive while he lived with Russia, wasn't going to take any chances.

Liet checked behind the door and under the bed in quick succession, but Poland wasn't hiding in either place. His gaze fell on the closed closet door and he snuck over silently. Taking a deep breath, he threw open the door.

"Found you," he said (not yelled, that was too risky). But the closet was also empty of Poland. In fact, it was empty of everything, all the clothes Liet had acquired for Poland over the past four months.

"Polshka's not here."

Lithuania jumped, slamming the closet door shut. Russia stood just inside the room, watching him coolly, his face blank.

"R- Russia Zimavich," Lithuania stuttered, backing away from the closet (and the corner) towards the room's center. He could still hear music playing from the office; it must have covered the sound of Russia's approach, although the huge nation could be dead silent when he wanted to be. Damn it, he had been counting on Russia turning off the music and thus alerting him. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"There is little way you could have not meant to come in here, Litva," Russia said amiably as he walked forward, and Liet knew he was in trouble.

"Where's Poland?" the Baltic asked, backing up at the same slow pace as Russia's advance. They both knew that Lithuania would run out of space first, but Liet couldn't help it.

Annoyance flickered across Russia's face. "Germany came to pick him up today," he replied, shrugging. "They left in the afternoon, around one, maybe two o'clock."

When Lithuania had been out getting groceries. And in a flash he realized that Russia had staged the whole thing: knowing that the Baltics would draw out breakfast to avoid going out into the bitter cold, spiking the cocoa so that Liet at least would decline, making the errands appear like a subtle punishment and thus perfectly normal. The only thing that Russia hadn't manipulated was the weather itself.

"I didn't get to say good bye," Lithuania muttered miserably. His heel bumped into the wall below the window.

Russia casually closed the distance, coming well within an arm's length, well aware that the smaller nation felt the height difference keenly. "You did not remember?" he queried, a bemused expression on his face. "But you knew that your time with him was short."

Liet heard the careless cruelty in his words, the reference to both the present and the past, when Russia had destroyed the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and dragged Lithuania off to live with him for the first time. He opened his mouth to respond, but Russia continued on regardless.

"But if you did not remember, then you still thought that Poland was in solitary confinement," the Arctic nation mused thoughtfully. "But he's not here, so it seems your little rebellion is in vain, da?"

Lithuania swallowed thickly, glancing away, but a finger slid under his chin and tilted his head upward. Fearful green eyes met chilled violet ones, and Russia smiled. Lithuania's legs almost gave out.

"What will you do now that your scheming partner in crime is gone, hm? No more hurtful tricks, da, Litva?"

But they hadn't been his tricks at all, just Poland acting out, but Russia wasn't going to believe anything he said to that effect. "R- Russia—"

"No more tricks, Litva," Russia repeated, the smile vanishing, his eyes darkening as he gripped Liet's chin tightly, keeping their gaze locked. "Da?"

The tone brokered no disagreements. "Da, Russia Zimavich," he said, his voice wavering, his whole body trembling.

Russia let go of him then, stepping back to return the stolen personal space. "Xorasho," he said, his cheery disposition once again in the forefront. "I'm glad. Well, run along then; we're having vareniki for dinner tonight, da?"

Lithuania nodded stiffly and forced himself to walk rather than run from the room, Russia's eyes following his retreat the entire way.

The Baltic managed to get all the way downstairs to the living room before the tremors were too much and he crumpled onto the couch. Taking deep shuddering breathes in the hopes of calming his fluttering heart, Lithuania rested his head on the sofa back and stared, gaze unfocused, at the ceiling.

Poland was gone, back to Germany's for he didn't know how long. He wondered what the departure had been like; knowing Poland, it likely involved a lot of whining and bitching, neither of which probably went over well with either Germany or Russia. (He also doubted Poland had the common sense to know when to stop.) He wasn't sure whom he'd rather have react in that situation, Germany or Russia. Actually, he imagined that Germany wouldn't react, choosing to ignore Poland's tantrum in favor of pure stoicism. If anything, Russia would react, chiding Poland for being so difficult, and didn't he know that things would just be unnecessarily prolonged that way?

The fact that Lithuania could practically hear Russia recite those words in his mind spoke volumes for the state of his nerves.

---

This chapter's a bit shorter than the others, and I'm not entirely sure I like it... The next chapter's nearly done though!

Vocab

puzhalsta- please; for either requesting or offering something (can also be used as "you're welcome", leading to the exchange "Puzhalsta" "Spasiba" "Puzhalsta" *sweatdrop*)


	6. The Season

I was half way done with chapter seven when I realized that I hadn't posted chapter six yet. Oops. ^^;

---

The winter continued on regardless of the change. They readjusted, though Lithuania suspected that only he and maybe Russia truly noticed Poland's absence. To the Baltic, the house seemed particularly dreary without his odd ditziness. At least the unpleasantness Latvia had displayed previously quickly vanished with the blonde's leave.

Less than a week after Poland's return to Germany, Russia locked them all out of the kitchen, insisting he make dinner himself. Lithuania had no idea what he was planning. Why would he suddenly breaking the standing pattern of letting them tend to all the chores? It _couldn't_ be a party; he would need all of them cooking if he were trying to throw together one of those elaborate affairs. So when Russia finally reappeared and called them to dinner, Liet went with a mixture of worry and curiosity.

The kitchen table was set with their best china and silverwear, and the table itself sported a white tablecloth, its surface slightly bumpy. The cause, Liet saw as he quickly peeked while Russia's back was turned, was a thin layer of straw and hay under the cloth. It felt old and familiar, but it took him a moment to place it. The Epiphany! Little Christmas! But, wasn't religion banned?

Russia returned from the counter with a large proclein bowl, setting it in the center of the table. He held out his hand expectantly and Liet handed him a bowl; Russia ladled out a steaming helping of kutya, the thick wheat and honey porridge that in older times had been associated with funerals, and he repeated the process with Estonia and Latvia. They waited quietly, unsure of what to make of this sudden change.

When Russia held out his hand a fifth time Liet was momentarily confused until he saw the extra place setting next to him; still puzzled, he handed that over as well.

Russia filled it and broke the silence with "For those no longer with us."

For one horror-filled moment, Lithuania thought he was talking about Poland, that Poland had died, but that wasn't possible, he couldn't be dead; Liet realized that instead, Russia had just invited the dead to dine with them. He carefully accepted the bowl back and place it at the empty seat, vaguely unnerved.

Russia didn't seem to notice his discomfort. He scooped up a spoonful of kutya and, in a move that made all the Baltics jump, flung it at the ceiling where it stuck with a splatter. He waited a few moments as some of the grains fell back to the table; Liet could see his lips move slightly as he silently counted before smiling softly and pronouncing, "Ah, there will be many bees come spring, xorasho."

Estonia and Latvia stared uncomprehendingly at the ceiling, dumbfounded.

Continuing with his strange ritual, Russia took another spoonful of kutya and gestured for Lithuania to do the same. He followed the huge nation to the window, snow swirling in when he opened it.

Russia flung the spoonful of porridge out the window. "To Grandfather Frost, a spoonful for thee! Please leave our crops alone!" he stated loudly. He took the second spoonful from Liet and turned back to the window, pausing a moment, staring out at the dark night as cold poured in and settled around their feet.

"To General Winter," he said quietly, almost low enough that Liet nearly missed it. "A spoonful for thee." He flicked the kutya out into the snow.

The wind shrieked, howling bitter cold—Lithuania staggered back under the force of the gust, arms shielding his face from the stinging ice, but Russia only flinched, standing fast as the wind whipped around him.

The blast of air vanished as quickly as it came; the Baltics watched Russia fearfully, suspecting they knew what they had witnessed but unwilling to say anything. Russia too seemed frozen, gaze locked somewhere out in the dark, but then he moved, shutting the window slowly. As he stepped back, Liet caught a glimpse of his face, pale as a sheet, wide violet eyes making him appear more child-like than ever, and his cheek—

"Russia Zimavich, you're bleeding," Lithuania pointed out gently.

He blinked, reaching up—was he shaking slightly?!—to touch the small cut, drawing his fingers away to see the proof.

"So I am," he murmured, but made no move to staunch the sluggish trickle.

They sat down and Russia opened the meal with a toasted to a good new year. Liet frowned as they eat their meal in silence. A good year? But this was _clearly _a Little Christmas celebration. Ah, but that made sense though. With religion illegal, Russia couldn't hold any Little Christmas festivities, so he dropped out the religious influences and styled it as a New Year's celebration instead (even though that had been six days ago). The pagan elements he could keep because his people didn't recognize them for what they were; to the Russian populace, that was simply what one did this time of year.

Old habits died hard, he supposed, even for countries.

Something clinked in his bowl and he glanced down, catching sight of silver. Confused he fished it out: a silver coin.

Russia noticed. "Ah, Litva, you found it!" he exclaimed, taking the coin and wiping it off with his napkin. He handed it back, smiling as he curled Liet's fingers around it. "Now you have good luck for the year!"

Somehow, Lithuania doubted that.

Wisely, he didn't voice this.

--

A blizzard struck not a week after Little Christmas, burying them in nearly a meter of snow on top of the half meter they already had. The deeper drifts covered the some of the windows on the ground floor, obscuring the sunlight and allowing only an eerie muted glow during the day.

Everyone's attention was unspokenly focused on surviving the sudden cold snap. Russia deemed it unsafe for the Baltics to venture outside, so he shoveled the walkway himself, loudly singing a marching tune as he worked. Lithuania and the others were instead regulated to the frigid basement, checking the water pipes for freezing and taking shifts shoveling coal into the furnace. The coal supply rapidly dwindled and Liet dutifully informed Russia, who announced that he would _lower the temperature in the house_ to conserve fuel, since that coal had to last until the end of the month when they were slated to receive another shipment.

Latvia made the mistake of complaining about the uncomfortable change—Russia threw him outside without a coat or boots and locked the door. Lithuania and Estonia looked on in horror, fearing for Latvia's life as Russia blithely made a cup of tea, seemingly obvious to the pounding on the door, the shrieking cries of 'Russia, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please let me in, it's freezing out here! Please Russia!!' By the time Russia had finished fixing his tea, slightly over five minutes later, the pleas for forgiveness had stopped. The Arctic nation went to the door and opened it; Latvia lunged for the hallway but Russia caught him, forcing him to stand nearly barefoot on the frozen stone porch.

"Is the house warm enough now?" he asked pleasantly, hands on the boy's shoulders.

"D- D- D- D- Da," Latvia chattered, nodding jerkily.

Russia scooped the boy up into his arms and shut the door before carrying the young Baltic to the kitchen were the steaming cup of tea waited. Latvia was shaking too hard to hold the cup without spilling it, so Russia sat him on his lap and held the cup up for him to slowly sip, all the while murmuring some patriotic propaganda about how everyone had to make personal sacrifices for a land to run smoothly.

Latvia was left in Lithuania and Estonia's care once the tea was done, and the two carefully peeled off his iced socks, soaking his frozen feet in room-temperature water to fight off the threatening frostbite. None of them mentioned the incident, the cause or the reason, because it was Russia and that was just how things were.

In response to the lowered temperatures, Liet started to make up any excuse he could for staying in the kitchen, turning out a variety of breads and sweets and multi-coursed dinners, anything to stand by the warm stove. It was in times like these that he saw and appreciated the wisdom of an over-stocked pantry. While the deep snow might cut off their supply of milk for a few days, they lacked little else. Russia made certain the hens he kept were well cared for despite the huge snow drifts around the coop, so they even had fresh eggs. Lithuania was more than happy to avoid the trips all over the city looking for food.

Of course, as the weeks passed by, he couldn't escape the outdoors entirely. In an attempt to provide heat without using their meager coal supply, Russia would take trips into the woods, rifle slung over his shoulder and ax strapped to his side, to return with firewood. Occasionally he dragged Lithuania along, who followed behind in the pathway the huge nation carved through the snow, pulling the sled.

He couldn't quite figure why Russia brought him, considering there was only one ax and Russia insisted on hauling the sled back once it was loaded with wood. Perhaps, for the company? But even that didn't make complete sense, as Russia often instructed Liet to go searching for suitable trees. He wandered around, struggling to adjust his gait to the long oval snowshoes that Russia provided for trekking over the deeper drifts, and looked for dead trees to fell, the sound of the ax echoing through the forest fading as he drifted further away. Gazing at the monotonous expanse of white, broken only by bare trees stretching naked branches to the grey sky in a futile search for warm sunlight, Lithuania was certain he'd never grow to enjoy winter.

He heard the shift of snow and glanced over absently at the sound; he froze.

A large grey wolf stood just a few feet away, watching him intently with pale eyes. His first instinct was to run, but he forced himself to stay still; running only triggered their chase instincts. (Besides, he was pretty certain that he couldn't run in his ridiculous snowshoes.) He glanced into the woods around him; where was the rest of its pack? It didn't _look _like it had rabies. Lithuania hoped that it wasn't sizing him up as prey—don't be stupid, wolves don't _actually_ attack people, he chided. But it made him nervous nonetheless, and not for the first time did he wish that Russia permitted him to carry a weapon.

The wolf advanced slightly, stiff legged, hackles bristling, ears erect. Aggressive, dominant. Had he stumbled into its territory? Liet bowed ever so slightly in a human mockery of a submissive wolf's behavior, trying to make himself seem smaller like they did, hoping to avoid an attack. The wolf snarled, bearing its teeth. Liet hastily straightened up, truly worried now, wondering if yelling would provoke it, knowing that he had little chance of winning a fight.

A gunshot—tree bark exploded next to the wolf; it jumped back as Liet whirled to face his rescuer.

Russia advanced steadily, rifle trained on the wolf as he worked the bolt one-handed, reloading another clip. Lithuania took a step towards him.

"Stop!"

Liet lurched to a halt. But, the wolf—

"About face, Litva," he ordered, eyes locked on the huge canine.

"What—?"

"About face!" he barked, rifle muzzle flicking towards the Baltic for the shortest instant. Liet heard the snow crunch as the wolf moved, closer he instinctively knew, in the breath of time the rifle wasn't aimed at it. That was frighteningly intelligent…

Lithuania obeyed, turning to face the wolf. He felt dread finally settle over him; stupid, considering that Russia was here and would theoretically help him, but his current position was so unsafe it wasn't funny. Before him a wolf; behind him, Russia, with a loaded rifle pointed in his general direction. For one twisted moment, he imagined the huge country marching him forward at gunpoint, right into the wolf's waiting jaws.

"Now, Litva, back up _slowly_," Russia commanded.

Liet did so, and heard the other nation walk up next to him. Once they were even, Russia stepped in front of him, shielding him from view. The wolf flattened its ears back briefly, pacing back and forth, apparently unwilling to come any closer.

"He's mine!" Russia pronounced loudly. Liet shot him a startled look. "Take you wolves and your beasts, General; Litva is mine!"

_General—?!_

The wolf snarled and Russia shot the ground beneath its paws. It leapt back, ears flattened to its head as it snarled again, more viciously than before, but the powerful creature turned tail to leave. By the time Russia had cocked the rifle again, the wolf was gone.

Slowly, the huge nation lowered the gun, eyes scanning the forest.

"Russia Zimavich, sp—"

"Get back to the sled, Litva," Russia said quietly, turning back to face him. "Come on, back to the sled," he insisted when Liet didn't immediately move, nudging him with the side of the (still loaded) rifle.

They loaded up the remaining wood onto the sled and proceeded home, Russia quiet and contemplative, Lithuania unwilling to break that silence. He noticed that cold country didn't switch the rifle safety back on until they reached the house.

--

That night, armed with hot chocolate and blankets, the Baltics curled up in front of a roaring fire, while Russia lounged on the sofa behind them with his ever-present vodka. They listened to the radio, to music and new broadcasts, the latter of which Lithuania never trusted, since all the broadcasts to which Russia listened (and Russia had the final say to which stations they listened) were bound to be filled with propaganda. So when the news came on, Liet stared into the fire and tried not to let the biased political agenda seep into his head. Instead, his thoughts kept drifting back to the wolf.

Russia had called it 'general'. Or maybe not. He could have been addressing General Winter—it had to have been General Winter he was talking about, who else could it be?—overall, as if the wolf was a messenger or something. All speculation. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. But the gust of wind immediately after the kutya offering; the wolf a few days later… And Liet had no idea what General Winter was like, what his relation with Russia was aside from rumors that occasionally drifted among the other nations. It was _the_ forbidden topic; you didn't ask Russia about General Winter. You just didn't.

The fire had died down to embers by the time the radio broadcaster signed off for the night. Lithuania blinked, rousing himself from his spacey state as static cackled softly. Glancing down, he saw that Latvia and Estonia had dozed off, leaning on each other and him for support. Just like in their waking days. The thought was sobering; he gently woke them, whispering the hour and instructing them to go to bed. They nodded sleepily and drifted away towards their rooms. Then Lithuania turned his attention to Russia.

Said country had also fallen asleep—or passed out, given the number of bottles that littered the floor near the sofa. Liet picked his way over, careful not to kick any of them, and stood there a moment, weighing his options. His safest choice would be to leave Russia on the couch, but that could result in a rather unpleasant morning. However, he had no idea what mood Russia would be in if woken up. The slumbering nation appeared deceptively peaceful, but the vodka he held as one would a teddy bear went a long way towards reminding Lithuania of whom he was dealing with.

But what if the reason Russia clung to vodka was because he didn't have anything _better_?

"Russia Zimavich?" Liet whispered loudly.

No response. He hadn't really been expecting one.

He tried again, slightly louder, a light hand on his shoulder.

Russia shifted and murmured something under his breath.

Frowning, hoping he wasn't about to be accidentally hurt, Lithuania tried once more, louder, with more force.

Slowly, Russia opened his eyes and his gaze took even longer to focus on the Baltic's face. "Litva?" he slurred, disorientated.

Oh god, he was legitimately _drunk_. "Da, Russia Zimavich. Let me help you get to bed," Lithuania said, coaxing the vaguely conscious country into a sitting position.

Russia's first attempt at standing ended with him losing balance, the vodka slipping from his grip as he flailed and flopped back down onto the sofa with a giggle. At Liet's encouragement he tried again, swaying dangerously, but he remained on his feet, leaning heavily on the shorter nation. He nearly dragged them both down when he stepped on one of the many bottles on the floor—Liet cursed himself for not having the foresight to move the stupid things—but succeeded in catching himself clumsily.

Lithuania had no idea how they were going to make it up the stairs.

A good ten minutes later, after much silent swearing and bruising on Liet's part, in which he banged his knees into the steps no less than seven times as he struggled to bare Russia's full weight when the larger nation temporarily collapsed, they managed to reach the second landing. After the stairs, getting Russia down the hall to his room felt like child's play.

Russia sat heavily on the side of his bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling with a pleasant expression on his face. Liet waited a moment before sighing in the realization that Russia wasn't going to do anything more himself.

"Russia Zimavich, would you sit up so I can remove your coat?" he requested politely.

The childish nation shook his head. "I dun wanna," he said, garbling the words hopelessly.

Suppressing another sigh, Lithuania leaned over and daintily began undoing the straps on the military coat. Russia didn't respond until Liet tried to ease an arm out of a sleeve.

"Taking advantage, Litva?" he queried, voice soft.

Lithuania nearly flung himself backwards in his haste, apology and denial on his lips, but Russia caught him by the wrist in a surprisingly coordinated moved, though it lacked his usual grace.

"Stay with me tonight," he said flatly, liquor-hazed eyes imploring where his words were not.

"No," Liet responded immediately. Russia was drunk, perhaps if he was quick enough he could talk himself out of this. "Russia, you need your rest; I need to go clean up downstairs, there's—ah!"

Russia yanked him forward and he toppled onto the bed next to the other nation; he scrambled to a sitting position instantly, panic sweeping through him.

Russia giggled again, rolling onto his side. "My little rabbit—did the big bad wolf scare you?" he wondered with a lopsided grin.

Liet remained silent, trying to gauge the distance from the bed to the door and how quickly he could reach it before Russia caught him. He wouldn't make it on a normal day, but with Russia drunk…

He didn't get the chance. Russia's hand clamped down on his ankle like a vice, hauling him down; Russia moved up next to him, shifting his grip quickly to a wrist, and Liet tried to throw his weight off the bed, but all that did was nearly wrench his shoulder out of the socket.

"Stop fighting, Litva," the other nation growled, and Liet heard the threat of violence in his voice. He stopped, shaking fiercely, tears welling up in his eyes.

Russia laid on his back and tugged Lithuania down next to him, pulling the covers over them; he looped an arm under Liet's neck to rest against his back and gently stroked the boy's hair with his free hand, quietly hushing the Baltic's frightened weeping to no avail.

In a few minutes the soft ministrations slowed, then stilled as Russia's breathing evened and deepened into sleep.

Lithuania sniffed, shivering in fear, curled up next to a surprisingly warm Russia (save for his hands—his hands were like ice). The lax grip tightened the moment he moved, and he quickly abandoned the idea of escaping, instead hoping that Russia had consumed enough alcohol to stay asleep, terrified of what might happen should Russia awake.

When sleep finally claimed his body, it was fitful and plagued with nightmares.

---

I'm pretty sure that my nerves would keep me up the whole night, were I in Lithuania's situation...

Little Christmas, the Epiphany, is on January 6th (my mother's birthday!) and it celebrates the day the three kings visited baby Jesus. The hay under the table cloth symbolizes the manger, and kutya is the traditional food of choice. And yes, you really do fling a spoonful at the ceiling to predict the number of bees, and spoonful out the window for Grandfather Frost. I'm kinda sad that I couldn't include any more Christmas info; Russian Christmas and such is really pretty awesome~

Since I don't think I've actually explained this yet, here's the reason for "Russia _Zimavich_". Russians have three names, a given name, a patronymic name, and a surname. A patronymic is a name that shows lineage and is based on the father's name: father's name + male or female ending, depending on the gender of the person in question. For example, the Grand Duchess Anastasia's name is Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova--Nikolaevna is the patronym, derived from her father's name, Nikolay (Nicholas), plus the feminine ending 'evna'. In contrast, her younger brother the Tzarevich Alexei's name is Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov--the masculine ending is 'evich'. Patronyms are used in conjunction with one's given name as a formal address; in other words, the patronym is the Russian equivalent of the Japanese '-san' suffix. Since Lithuania addresses him as Russia-san in the webcomic, he's obviously showing respect. However, as neither Lithuania nor Russia are Japanese, he can't be using '-san'. Thus, Zimavich.

But wait, some say, you said a patronym is based off of a person's father! Russia doesn't have a father! An astute observation, and you're quite right. Zimavich is broken down into 'zima' + 'vich', vich being the masculine ending. 'Zima' means winter. Since Russia was raised by General Winter, I choose to give Russia his name as a patronym. This explains why Russia snapped at Liet back in chapter 2 for using his patronymic; he didn't want to be reminded of General Winter right then, not when he's currently bleeding and burnt and in a terrible mood...

Vocab: xorasho--good (the 'x' is pronounced like an 'h'; tricksy, da?)

Ugh, longest author's note _ever_. If you sat through that, congratulations and thank you! Hope you learned something new!

Read and review, comrades!


	7. Familial Affection

Next chapter! Updates might come a touch slower now that the semester's started back up again, but I will do my best. Goodness knows I'd rather write this than papers; perfect procrastination fodder.

---

Warmth ghosted over his neck. He shuddered slightly, squirming deeper into the warm, soft space.

Then memory slammed into him and Lithuania snapped awake.

He was still in Russia's bed, fully clothed and untouched. Said country was sleeping peacefully behind him, curled protectively around the smaller nation, an arm draped loosely over Liet's side, his face buried in Liet's hair, and every soft exhale sent shivers down the terrified country's spine.

Lithuania forced his breathing to remain even as he considered his situation, worried that the slightest change would alert Russia to the waking world. But as the minutes crawled by at an agonizingly slow pace, Liet realized that waiting for Russia to wake up on his own was an even worse idea. Mind made up, he move slightly, cautiously, away from the other man; Russia didn't respond. As quickly and as carefully as he could, Liet slipped off of the bed, gently lowering Russia's arm to the mattress and, praying that he wasn't just feigning sleep, left him slumbering there and crept out of the room.

He went to his room and changed into fresh clothing, dragging a comb through his hair in an effort to make himself look presentable. There was nothing he could do about the dark circles under his eyes though. Estonia and Latvia were already downstairs preparing breakfast; they stopped what they were doing when he entered, staring at him with a mixture of worry and fear and please-dear-god-let-my-suspicions-be-incorrect, the force of their gaze bringing Liet to a halt just inside the doorway.

"I'm fine," he said quietly, reassuringly.

Estonia studied him a moment longer before nodding once, and Latvia put down the pitcher of cream to hug him tightly around the middle, wordlessly willing those words to be true. Liet realized that his statement didn't really confirm or deny anything, and yet they unconditionally offered their understanding and concern anyways.

Touched, he hugged Latvia back.

"Let's get breakfast ready, okay?"

Shortly after Russia came downstairs, bleary-eyed and frowning, wincing in the bright sunlight. He went straight for the cabinet and poured himself a shallow glass of vodka, downing it immediately.

"Good morning, Russia Zimavich," Estonia greeted cautiously. "How are you?"

"Headache," he replied shortly, pouring himself another glass.

_Hangover_, Lithuania corrected mentally.

Russia drained the second glass.

--

And winter dragged on, though not a fiercely as before. Snow drifts melted a little during the day, refreezing into sheets of ice during the night, making walking treacherous—Latvia routinely fell, and even Russia slipped once or twice, though he never hit the ground. And every day, the sunlight lingered just a few minutes longer than before.

February seemed to be a month of parties, as people truly got sick of the winter and were willing to brave the weather for a chance at revelry among friends. Russia vanished several nights a week, returning happily liquored up in the early morning hours, singing. He hosted a few parties himself; those days were marked by frantic cooking and baking in the kitchen to ensure enough food and drink (and there was _always _drink). They would always seem to just finish setting up the table when the first guests would arrive; Estonia and Latvia would be banished upstairs, while Lithuania was instructed to change into 'something nice—not your uniform' and forced to attend.

Those were dangerous nights, when he drifted among the Russian elite, high-ranking officers and Party members, actors and writers, the prima ballerina of the Moscow ballet. Russia introduced him as a friend and assistant, and Liet found that this got him treated with a distant politeness, a light friendship that increased as people consumed more vodka. He was a curiosity to them, a born-and-bred Lithuanian living in Moscow, with apparently enough influence to be Ivan Bragniski's personal assistant. Who was he, they wanted to know. What brought him to Moscow? How did he meet Ivan? (Or 'Vanya', as one general affectionately called him.) What did he think of Germany's advancement into Europe? The Fall of France? The 'acquisition' of Poland and the Baltics joining the Motherland? He answered their questions carefully and politely, interjecting into his responses just enough Communist propaganda to turn aside any further questions concerning loyalty, making certain that nothing negative crept into his words, which was especially difficult when talking about Poland, or Russia's take-over of the Baltics.

"It is good for them, I think," remarked the wife of a prominent Party member, referring to the country's expansion. "We can bring them so much; class divisions are leveled, and everyone is equal."

_And it's easier to drag everyone down than raise them up, so we know what the standard will be._ But he held his tongue and smiled, allowing the others to dominant the conversation.

"Not to mention that everyone will have food under our system. Bread for 73 kopeks! Even a poor German could afford that!" the Party member added.

_My people weren't starving until you came along!_

"Da, we will bring wonderful things to Lithuania; we will free him from the meschanstvo!" Liet stiffened instinctually as Russia threw an arm over his shoulder and continued cheerily, "He and all the rest are one with Russia, and we will take them to great heights!"

The surrounding company cheered slightly at the more-than-tipsy man's declaration. Abruptly, Russia spun Liet around and wrapped an arm around his waist, catching his free hand and—"Come on, Toris!"— dragging the protesting country around in a waltz that was too fast to be a waltz, singing as he went:

_At a short stop-over, after a long march  
The accordion beings to play a gay polka  
Despite the fatigue no one can resist the invitation  
Of the lively tune, and pretty soon, the long army  
Coats are whirling in the dance. Heavy boots are  
Beating out the rhythm on the dusty road,  
And the faces are algow with smiles--_

The onlookers clapped in time, laughing as the short quick half-steps threw Liet's balance badly enough that he clung to Russia for dear life; the huge nation got through the whole song before releasing Lithuania, the smaller country spinning away and nearly stumbling into a couch; the others, sensing the end, called for dance and began pushing furniture aside.

Liet made his way to a wall, catching his breath as his heart thudded in his ears. He watched people pair off and dance to lively old songs that betrayed their roots, everyone too drunk to care. He saw Russia, a head taller than most of them, laughing happily as he flew through the energetic steps, drifting among partners as people cut in and out. When he returned someone's pretty wife with a bow, Lithuania was struck with the sudden memories of elaborate balls at the Winter Palace, of floor-length gowns and crisp decorated uniforms. He wondered if Russia was thinking of a dance with a smiling little girl, her eyes bright and mischievous, diadem slightly crooked despite the artfully concealed hair pins.

From the distant look in Russia's eye, he thought so.

--

As the end of February neared, Russia gained an anxious air, a sense of excitement that put the Baltics on edge even as Russia acted more and more cheerful—when Latvia tripped and spilt a bottle of vodka on the floor, the huge country only lightly whacked him upside the head, with no real force behind it. The growing anticipation finally cumulated one morning when Russia woke up before everyone else and stole into the kitchen.

Lithuania approached said room with curiosity and wariness. The only reason to start dinner prep this early, and one of the few reasons that got Russia into the kitchen, was another god-forsaken party. Peeking in, he saw Russia at the counter, the sleeves of his embroidered peasant shirt rolled up, kneading dough into round little loaves. Another batch of bread was rising over the stove, on which a sauce of some sort was simmering. He was about to sneak away when Russia turned and noticed him.

"Dobroye utro, Litva!" he greeted, dusting his hands off on his shirt (thankfully it was cream-colored). "Come here and make kupecheskaya for breakfast; I need to keep cooking," he instructed, popping the risen bread into the oven and leaving the newly formed bread to rise.

"Should I wake Estonia and Latvia?" he asked, knowing that all three of them would be needed for party preparation.

"Eh, not yet; let them sleep. We will be up late tonight I suspect."

"The usual guests?" Liet queried absently, tying his hair back as he went to the pantry for buckwheat and mushrooms.

"Chto? Oh—nyet, is not a party; big sister Yukraina and little sister Belarus are visiting."

Lithuania nearly dropped the bag of buckwheat, catching it just before it spilled. "Belarus is coming?" he blurted in disbelief, sticking his head out of the pantry.

"And Yukraina, da," Russia answered. "They should be arriving sometime in the afternoon; that is why I want to get most of the cooking done now. We need more tea cookies," he added, frowning as he peered into a jar.

Lithuania finished gathering ingredients and started making breakfast, lost in thought. Belarus was coming! And thanks to Russia's parties the week before, most of his nicer clothes were in the laundry. Even if he washed them this instant, they wouldn't be dry in time. Damn it. There goes that chance for making a good impression.

Estonia and Latvia appeared just in time for breakfast and were put on cleaning duty the instant they finished: Estonia was to prepare the guest bedrooms, making sure fresh sheets were laid out, while Latvia was to polish the silver under it shined. Their reactions to Russia's announcement varied: Estonia accepted this new development with a neutral air; Latvia blinked a few times before wondering aloud, "But, I thought you didn't like Belarus."

"Latvia!" Liet and Estonia snapped in unison. Why was he so clueless?!

Russia's good mood spared the boy again. "Belarus is my sister; of course I like her," he said with a patient smile, as if explain something obvious. He ruffled Latvia's hair, who flinched under the man's touch. "I like all my countries."

Russia went to the train station just before two and returned a half an hour later. Lithuania ran for the door and threw it open, admitting a Russia weighed down with two huge suitcases, one on his shoulder and the other tucked under his arm, followed by Ukraine and—Liet's heart skipped a beat as blood rushed to his cheeks—Belarus. He got exactly two seconds to stutter a greeting, gawking stupidly at her—long flowing blond hair, beautifully pale face, soft lips perpetually arranged in a pout—before Russia unceremoniously dropped a suitcase on his foot.

"Oh, sorry Litva!" he exclaimed as Lithuania wrenched his foot out, biting his lip in an effort not to swear.

"Ah, it's fine, just a bruise," Liet managed through gritted teeth, trying to decide if Russia did that on purpose.

At Russia's order he ferried the suitcases upstairs to the guest bedrooms, racing back downstairs to find everyone in the kitchen around a silver samovar, the tea concentrate already brewing as Russia gathered sugar, cream, and jam. Lithuania got mugs from the cabinet, glass cups in elegant silver holders, while Estonia brought in two chairs from the dining room. The kitchen table only sat four, but Liet had learned long ago that Russia never minded a crowd. He found himself across from the huge country, with Estonia and Latvia straddling the corners on either side. (He tried not to be jealous of Latvia, who was seated close enough to Belarus that their elbows occasionally bumped.)

The Baltics sat quietly and sipped their tea as the other set of siblings caught up with each other in rapid-fire Russian, difficult to follow even after all this time. Liet didn't mind. It was kinda fascinating to see this side of Russia, a doting brother trying to look out for the well-being of his sisters. Granted, his boss might not always let him do that—the Holodomor from thirty-two, thirty-three illustrated that clearly enough—but he liked to think that Russia sincerely cared about Ukraine and Belarus.

Said country absently popped a sugar cube into his mouth and held it between his teeth while he drank his tea; Ukraine noticed, giggling, "Bratishka, you look like a merchant!"

Russia blinked, then realized what she meant, crunching the rest of the sugar cube. "Habit, habit," he said, waving off her comment as he blushed slightly. "So, what did you want to do today?"

"Spend time with you," Belarus answered instantly, putting down her cup. Russia didn't seem to hear her.

"Go ice skating," Ukraine pronounced after a moment's thought.

Lithuania groaned internally. When it was this cold out?

"Ice skating?" Russia repeated, surprised.

"Da, of course! It's traditional for M—" the elder sister slowed, her words dying as she caught herself, "—this time of the year," she amended, eyes sliding away in what Liet thought was guilt, and possibly worry.

Russia was silent a moment. The Baltics shifted in their seats, acutely aware of the possible mood change, unsure of what exactly Ukraine almost accidentally mentioned.

"True, it is traditional," Russia agreed slowly, as if considering the implications of his words. "But—"

"I brought my skates with me," Ukraine said quickly. "We both did." Belarus nodded shortly, eyes studying her brother's face carefully.

"Very well then, we shall go ice skating," Russia announced, smiling.

Ukraine beamed, jumping from her seat and running out of the room with a cry of "I'll go get my skates!" Taking this as a cue that tea was finished, Lithuania stood and began clearing plates, unconsciously pausing to watch Belarus drift out of the kitchen in pursuit of her sister.

"Litva!"

He jumped, the glass cups rattling. "Da, Russia Zimavich?"

Russia's expression was pleasant, but his eyes glittered. "You and the others have skates as well, da?"

No, he didn't want to go ice skating in this weather. It was freezing out! "Da, Russia Zimavich," he answered neutrally.

"Xorasho, you will be coming along as well."

"But dinner—"

"You will cook when we get back," Russia informed him. "Now go get your skates."

-

Lithuania was not particularly happy about ice skating. It wasn't that he couldn't ice skate—he could actually ice skate fairly well, forwards and backwards, had no difficulty stopping or turning—but it truly was freezing out. Even bundled up in multiple layers to fight off the cold, it was still suicide to stand still for any length of time. "Keep moving, my dears," Russia would sing-song whenever someone stopped, and Liet knew he wasn't just saying it for fun: it was entirely possible to get frostbite, or even hypothermia, if one stayed still too long.

So he skated leisurely laps around the frozen pond, watching Belarus openly as she skated smoothly alongside her brother. Russia, he realized with a touch of envy, could skate better than he could. The huge nation glided across the ice with a grace that belied his size, and would, at his sisters' requests, perform tricks usually only achievable by the daintiest of artistic skaters (or least, not someone Russia's size…)—flying camels , lutz jumps, axels, sit spins, spread eagles, spirals… And he never faltered, executing the moves perfectly, effortlessly, as if they were a simple thing, not a skill that took years to learn.

And he skated pairs with Belarus, holding her close by necessity, lifting her into the air, throwing her into a jump, dropping her dangerously close to the ice in a death spiral. Lithuania couldn't help but imagining himself in Russia's place, skating with such a close intimacy next to Belarus, side by side in mirrored jumps…

He didn't notice the rough groove in the ice and before he could react he was sprawled across its unforgiving surface.

"Ow, damn it," he muttered, pushing himself up and checking his hands; scrapped but not bleeding.

Skates ground to a halt in front of him, showering him with a light spray of ice shavings. "Are you okay, Litva?"

"I'm fine. Wasn't watching the ice," Liet muttered, accepting the offered hand as he climbed to his feet. Belarus favored him with a particularly dark glare, hovering behind Russia's shoulder—probably angry that he interrupted her time with her brother. Great…

Ukraine coasted over and heel-stopped, wobbling slightly. "Perhaps it is time we go home?"

Belarus's glare intensified.

"No, no; I'm fine, please don't worry about me," Liet said quickly. Ukraine still looked concerned, but at least Belarus seemed pacified.

"That is my Litva, always pushing forward through hardship," Russia said, clapping Liet on the back—almost sending him to the ground again. "Is a pity I left my hockey stakes at home, da? We could have had a match, the six of us."

Lithuania wasn't able to keep the look of horror off his face, so he ducked his head to hide the terrified expression. Luckily, Russia didn't notice; he gave them one last smile before gliding off towards Latvia and Estonia (the smaller of the two starting badly enough to fall).

Ukraine turned to continue skating as well, losing and regaining her balance in a heartbeat. Scowling, Belarus caught her by the arm and demanded, "Why don't you skate properly? Adjust your turns!"

"What's wrong with her turns?" Lithuania wondered before he stopped himself.

"It's nothing—" the elder sister started, but Belarus cut her off.

"Girls have a center of balance in their stomachs," she said, gesturing to her own waist. "But sestra is too top-heavy; her center of balance is near her diaphragm. Boys like you have your center of balance here," she finished, lightly laying her hand on his chest—Liet wondered if she could feel his heart pounding—for a moment before withdrawing.

Ukraine was a deep shade of scarlet. "I have not skated since last winter; I am out of practice. I am sure I will be fine in a few minutes," she sputtered, gliding away quickly, leaving them alone.

Belarus sniffed, a disbelieving sound, and before Lithuania could say something, anything, to keep her attention, she turned and skated back to Russia. Liet watched her go, palms burning from injury and ice, saw Russia shy away from her, and wondered with a touch of irony why the arctic nation, so intent on gathering countries to him, would deny someone who so desperately wanted to become one with him.

They went home just before dusk, their shadows stretching out before them over the trampled snow. Russia apologized to his sisters, explaining that he had some paperwork to take care of before dinner, "please, make yourselves comfortable; my home is your home", and Liet couldn't even begin to count the hidden meanings in that statement.

Lithuania and his brothers turned to the kitchen. A glance at the clock showed it to be nearly four; they had two, maybe three hours to put together dinner before annoying Russia with their tardiness. As Liet tied his hair back, wondering what would work as an acceptably impressive dish to serve Russia's family, said sisters wandered into the kitchen.

"What are you making for dinner?" Ukraine queried, Belarus a quiet shadow behind her.

Lithuania dragged his eyes away from the younger sister. "I'm not sure yet."

"Will you make something of yours?" she asked curiously, meaning of course his national cuisine.

"Huh? Ah, Russia might not—"

"I know! Why don't we _all_ make one of our national dishes?" Ukraine chirped happily.

"Ukraine, I'm not sure your brother will—"

"Oh, _please_, Lithuania; I'm sure it will make bratishka very happy! I will take full responsibility for it," the busty girl pleaded.

The Baltic nation suspected he didn't have a choice. "Sure…" _Be it on your head then._

"Wonderful! Everyone, figure out something of your own to make; it will be such a good surprise. Sestra, you should—"

Lithuania just stared at her. Now he knew where Russia got it from…

---

Heh, could you _imagine_ that hockey match? On the one side, Russia playing offensive, Belarus playing defense, and Ukraine as goalie; on the other, Lithuania as offense, Estonia as defense, and Latvia as goalie. The Baltics would just _die. _Russia would jet towards the net and Latvia would just cower. ^^; Not to mention how many bruises Lithuania and Estonia would have by the end...

Vocab- meschanstvo: petty bourgeoisie, with all the disgust only a commie could apply to the term

Dobroye utro: good morning

bratishka: an affectionate form of 'little brother'

sestra: sister (go figure)

Not much vocab, but I alluded to _so much_ in this chapter. Ready?

Russia drinking in response to his hangover is not that surprising; one of my Russian cookbooks, written in the early 80s, lists three different drinks one could make to combat a hangover--_all_ of them are alcoholic. ^^; 73 kopeks is equivalent to roughly 25 cents, back then; the kopek being to the ruble what cents are to the dollar. Da, Vanya really is the nickname for Ivan. The song lyrics are from the Regimental Polka, by the Soviet Army Chorus and Band (da, I do have old albums like that around my house, and da, I _do _listen to them; they're pretty). Kupecheskaya is a traditional breakfast food made from buckwheat and mushrooms, among other ingredients. The Cyrillic letter used to start 'Ukraine' is usually written in Latin letters as 'yu', thus 'Yukraina'.

Tea is a big deal in Russia; many Russians have a low iron count because tea contains tannins that inhibit iron absorption. Tea is typically brewed _very_ strong in a teapot that sits atop the samovar, in which boils water. The boiling water is used to dilute the tea concentrate, so that everyone can have their tea just as they like it. Sweets of some sort are a must, and Russian tea cups are pretty. Holding a sugar cube between one's teeth while sipping one's tea was a characteristic of the merchant class back in Imperial Russia (hence why Russia's embarrassed to have been caught doing that). It's fairly difficult to do correctly; if you try it, keep a napkin on your lap!

The Holodomor was a man-made (read: Soviet Union-made) famine that took out millions of Ukrainians; numbers range from (on the low side) 3.5 million to (on the high side) ten, twenty million. Many countries throughout the world have denounced the Holodomor as an act of genocide by Stalin; present-day Russia (and also China...) do not recognize it as such (but, to be fair, neither do England and France). It's one of those touchy topics...

Ukraine almost said "Maslenitsa", Butter Week, a holiday that takes place the week before Lent, right before all the harsh Lenten dietary restrictions started. More on this next chapter.

Artistic skaters is the typical term for figure skaters used in Europe. I made sure all the tricks Russia is said to be capable of actually existed in 1941; he's only doing a single axel there, mostly because the first double axel wasn't performed until 1948, by a Canadian. Why is Russia good at artistic skating? Just look at their Olympic record...

Another really long author's note! I'm sorry!!!

Read and review, comrades!


	8. Just a Game

Eh, sorry this chapter took longer than normal to post. School was busy the last two weeks. And the Olympics!! I cried when Russia's winning streak in figure skating pairs was broken, by _China _of all people! Russia's the one who practically_ taught_ China how to skate! But I loved watching Plushenko compete~ I watched and thought, Russia, isn't it cheating if you compete? XD Plushenko = Russia = *heart* I don't care what the judges say, to me, Plushenko won gold that night. Besides, Lysacek didn't even have a quad... Okay, I'll stop ranting now...

On with the chapter!

---

When Russia came down for dinner he peered curiously at the dishes arrayed on the table: Estonian potato salad, Latvian apple pudding, Lithuanian skilandis, Belarussian chernosliv farshirovannyi tvorogom, and Ukrainian vereshchaka. Before he could say anything, Ukraine explained that they had each made a dish for him.

"I thought you would like it, bratishka, to see what your countries have made for you," she said, hope in her voice.

The Baltics waited in their seats with baited breath, too concerned about avoiding potential wrath to feel vaguely betrayed over Ukraine's statement.

Russia sat down, then smiled broadly. "Spasiba, everyone! I'm glad we can share our favorite things with each other; we will become very close this way."

Lithuania let out a small sigh of relief. Unfortunate that Russia took the meal as a sign of agreement to his policies, but at least meant that they wouldn't have to flee the table at top speed.

"A toast!" Russia announced, and Liet nearly groaned. Ugh, he'd forgotten about that… "To the joining our countries for the common goal of freedom and equality!"

Two rounds of toasts with six people left Liet nauseous by the end of the meal, but he did enjoy all the different food. And the presence of Russia's sisters gave the frozen country people to talk to other than the Baltics, who were more than happy to keep quiet and let them dominate the conversation. Lithuania was especially grateful, since most Russia's dinner conversations were directed at him, and tended to require both an alarmingly deep understanding of the Party—which Liet simply didn't have—and frequent references to what he thought were probably obscure pamphlets published by the huge nation's former boss—which Liet simply hadn't read. A dinner in which he wasn't constantly on his toes to provide correct responses (and when talking to Russia, there were _always_ correct responses) was a nice reprieve.

The Baltics lingered in the kitchen after dinner to clean up, while everyone continued on to the living room, telling stories and laughing, the radio playing in the background. At first they worked in their accustomed silence, a habit ingrained by Russia's nigh constant omnipresence, but Latvia was the first to unconsciously realize that it wasn't needed that night.

"I'm really glad Russia's sisters are here, even if Belarus is scary," he announced suddenly.

Estonia shot him a startled looked, fear in his eyes, did Russia hear? But the laughter and music was too loud for even Russia's keen ears to have heard that.

Latvia continued, "Russia's a lot nicer this way."

They were quiet a moment at that statement, trying to judge the truth of it.

"Do we know how long they're staying?" Estonia wondered aloud.

"Their suitcases were pretty heavy," Liet replied, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot. "And they did come a long way."

Estonia nodded, and was silent a beat longer. "Let us hope this good mood holds?"

Liet and Latvia nodded, right when something banged loudly as Russia angrily shouted, "Sestra, that isn't my decision!"

The Baltic froze, listening.

"But I want to be with you; what does your boss care if we get marri—"

"Belarus, I don't want to marry you!"

SLAP

Lithuania's eyes widened; he was at the doorway to the living room before he realized he had moved. If Russia had hit Belarus—

But from the look of things—Russia's surprised expression, Belarus's righteous indignation, Ukraine's shock—that wasn't the case. Belarus held her brother's gaze for a half second longer before bursting into tears and running out of the room; they could hear her footsteps fly up the stairs and a door slam shut.

Russia looked crestfallen. "Why does she always have to ask me that?" he asked miserably, a hand on his already reddening cheek.

_Because for some crazy reason she loves you_, but Liet held his tongue, trying to sooth a flare of jealousy.

The eldest sister immediately tried to smooth things over. "Belarus just had too much to drink, that's all bratishka," she assured, guiding him back to the couch and offering him another shot which Russia took glumly. "I am sure everything will be fine in the morning."

Liet backed slowly into the kitchen before either nation could notice he was there. So much for their good mood.

--

To his surprise, the good mood was indeed back the next morning, just as Ukraine had predicted. Russia and Belarus before seemed to have forgotten about the night's incident completely, and Liet couldn't help but wonder if the other set of siblings also followed the unspoken rule that Lithuania and his brothers followed: if there's a bad situation and nothing can be done about it, ignore it and continue on as if everything is okay. They had been living by that tenet since moving back in with Russia, and the more he watched the other siblings interact, the more he suspected that they did as well.

No matter whose side they were on, was there a difference?

The rest of the week was almost a vacation for the Baltics. Whenever Russia shut himself up in his office for work, Ukraine would insist on helping with the housework, and Belarus occasionally pitched in as well, making the chores fly by and leaving them ample time for leisurely pursuits like reading or chess games or—and Liet could hardly believe what he was doing—writing letters to Poland and sneaking them into the post.

Since he didn't actually know if Poland was staying at Germany's house or just somewhere there, he addressed the letters to Germany first with Poland's name right underneath it, writing the letters entirely in Polish (thus lessening the chances that either Russia or Germany would read them, but increasing the likelihood that Poland wouldn't get them at all, since the two countries wouldn't know the content of the letters). In each letter Lithuania enclosed a single hair, so that Poland would know by its absence or presence whether the letter had been tampered with or not.

Chances were that Poland would never see the letters, but he wrote them anyways, apparently bland accounts of daily happens that wouldn't make any sense to the uninformed—Liet had no idea who would end up reading his letters—but Poland would know. He used the same code they had made back when Russia had first brought Liet to live with him: a sentence with the word 'shirt' in it meant that they had been interrogated, 'shoes' meant that they weren't getting enough to eat; the opening 'dear Feliks' with a comma meant that things were okay, but leaving out the comma meant that things were really bad. An elaborate system, one that was completely necessary, and one that Poland had made up himself. Lithuania only hoped that Poland would remember.

Of course, he didn't dare write the letters when Russia was out and about the house rather than in his office, but during that week, Liet wouldn't have had time anyways. For reasons he still didn't know, the week of the sisters' stay was marked by oddly festive activities: they went ice skating again, a troika ride the next night, and to the Baltics' terror, a snowball fight.

The snowball fight was the stuff of nightmares, although it started innocently enough. Walking back from a trip into town—Belarus and Ukraine bought hair ribbons, since theirs were tattered and falling apart—Russia had casually scooped up a handful of snow, compacted it, and shouted 'Catch, Litva!' as he tossed it. Lithuania tried, but the projectile exploded on contact with his hand, showering him with snow. Russia chuckled, resuming his conversation with Belarus, and before Liet could stop him, Latvia had made a snowball and arced it over everyone at the huge nation.

As Liet watched it spin through the air, helpless to stop its course, he thought, '_This is how wars start'_.

Latvia missed, the snowball plopping to the ground at Russia's feet. For an instant, Lithuania hoped that disaster had been averted, but Russia turned to face them properly just as Estonia chided, "Latvia!", and the nation's face broke into a grin.

"Snowball fight!" he announced, and there was a tense moment, the Baltics unsure if Russia was joking, and desperately hoping he was.

But the three Russias had backed up into a line, bending down in near-perfect unison to straighten up with snowballs in hand, and the Baltics knew immediately that no, Russia wasn't kidding and yes, the teams had been decided.

They ran. They fled for the house, just visible up the lane, as snowballs fell around them, a few nicking arms or torsos, most of them missing, and Liet felt that tight panic creep up on him as his thoughts flashed to memories of running through hails of bullets, praying nothing connected.

Estonia tripped, landing hard. Lithuania and Latvia skidded to a halt, turning back to see Russia bounding up behind the fallen nation like some great awful wolf, Ukraine and Belarus a few strides behind him. The huge nation slammed into Estonia just as he had scrambled to his feet again, taking them both to the ground, Estonia gasping in what Liet hoped was surprise rather than pain. Russia sat up, pinning the shorter blond to the ground as he reached for a handful of snow; Lithuania threw a snowball and it collided with Russia's shoulder, distracting him from his goal as Latvia closed the distance and _tackled_ Russia—"Leave him alone!"—off the now without-glasses-Estonia. Belarus fired off a snowball in retaliation and Liet couldn't move fast enough, it hit him hard in the chest—shit, was that _ice_? Russia flipped Latvia off him easily—Estonia found his glasses and got up, Ukraine clipped him in the head with a well-placed snowball—and rolled him over, pinning him to the ground as well, brushing snow directly into Latvia's face with "Bang!" and a giggle, Latvia squirming pitifully under him, pushing away Russia's cold hands, crying from cold and fear. Liet bombarded the frigid nation with snowballs, hoping he'd turn his attention to him instead, conveniently granting Estonia cover as he backed out of the fray, rapidly packing ammunition. He dodged what he could from Belarus, taking Ukraine's soft snowballs over Belarus's damaging ones, but then it was just he and Belarus as Estonia engaged Ukraine and drew away her fire. Desperate, Liet tried, "Wait, I don't—" but Belarus was relentless in her onslaught and so Liet retreated into the yard, taking cover behind the fence.

Russia stood, apparently satisfied with his defeat of Latvia as he proclaimed "One down, two to go!", and Lithuania realized that he and Estonia had not even the slimmest chance separated; he took a breath and broke cover, running at a crouch to where the other was concealed across the street, behind a snow-laden shrub. Snowballs spattered the ground around him and something hit him hard in the temple as he dove for relative safety, landing next to a battered-looking Estonia.

"You're bleeding," he said calmly after launching a (well-placed, judging by Belarus's shriek) snowball over the top, an odd contrast to his messy snow-packed hair and crooked glasses.

Lithuania tucked himself into a kneeling position, gingerly touching his temple and feeling wetness. "Belarus is packing ice," he said by way of explanation, taking a moment to breath.

"Ah…" Estonia nodded sagely before throwing another snowball. He ducked a returned shot, took another look, and then crouched back down. "Russia's advancing, Belarus is cover fire, and Ukraine's just vanished."

"Ukraine's just what?" Liet repeated, peeking around the side. Immediately a snowball whizzed past his face, missing him by mere centimeters—Belarus.

"She was secondary advance a moment ago—ah!"

"Estonia!" Lithuania whirled to see Ukraine dragging the taller Baltic out from behind the bush—"I got him, bratishka!"—with an arm around his neck, Estonia scrabbling for leverage and air and failing to find either. Liet threw quickly, missed, and they were out of sight by the time he had compacted a second projectile.

"Surrender, Toris!" Russia called, using his human name for anyone listening in. "We've captured your teammates." He paused, waiting to hear the response.

Lithuania's answer nailed him square in the face. Russia sputtered, brushing away the snow, then laughed. "Okay, but do not say I did not give you a choice!"

From the beginning Lithuania knew he couldn't win; even if it had been just Russia versus the Baltics, on the off-chance they were capable of winning, they wouldn't have dared—who knew how Russia would take that loss? But hiding there behind the shrub, trembling like a rabbit, frightened of what would happen if he surrendered and frightened of what would happen if he didn't, Lithuania decided that if he couldn't win this, than at least he wouldn't give in. It was a snowball fight, not an actual war, and he could afford to be dangerously stubborn when his people weren't at stake.

Of course, he managed to hold Russia off for all of a minute before the arctic nation grew tired of lobbing snowballs at a target he couldn't see and just rushed the make-shift fort instead. He slammed Liet down into the snow so hard he knocked the wind out of him; he gasped for air and twisted, trying to roll away, but Russia pinned him as he had the others, knees on either side of him, and there was no way on earth Liet would be able to push the heavy country off him. Russia scooped up a handful of powdery snow, held it up as he leaned down over the boy, and softly whispered "Bang…", his breath ghosting over Liet's ear. The brunette shivered; Russia sat up again, grinning like a child, and dumped the snow all over the Baltic's bare face and neck. Liet thrashed, trying to knock it off, but his arms were trapped so he was force to wait as the snow melted and dripped slowly into his hair, while Russia sat and watched him struggle not to fidget.

Finally Russia stood and dusted himself off wordlessly. Lithuania sat up, wiped away the remaining snow, and stood as well, grateful the whole ordeal was over. But his relief evaporated into nothing as Russia turned to him and asked, "So, how are you going to get your prisoners of war back?"

Lithuania blinked. "My what?"

"Your prisoners of war," Russia repeated, gesturing towards the house. Liet followed his gaze and saw Estonia and Latvia kneeling in the front yard, Belarus standing guard behind them, Ukraine off to the side with a look that suggested she didn't entirely agree with the situation.

Lithuania gaped wordlessly for a moment. What was he supposed to do? Normally countries would agree to trade prisoners of war in order to recover their own soldiers, but Lithuania didn't have that option. And then his brain caught up with him and translated what Russia was actually asking: what are you willing to do to protect your brothers?

He swallowed. He didn't want to answer that question. He didn't know what sort of situation to which his response would later be applied, and he didn't want to overshoot and say something that would wind up being ridiculously inappropriate. And asking Russia in order to use the reply as the bar by which to gauge his own answer was risky, in case Russia placed it idiotically high to spite him. But…

"If you don't recover your prisoners of war, they'll get snowed," Russia mentioned off-handedly while Liet hesitated. The statement was immediately decoded to read: when I capture soldiers, they normally wind up dead.

He had no choice. "What can I do?" he asked, and thankfully defeat didn't sound in his voice.

Russia knew though, a pleased look flashing through his violet eyes. "I don't know, Litva. What can you do?"

So he wouldn't help, Lithuania would have to guess and offer something. Unfortunately, he suspected he knew what Russia wanted from him; his refusal to help simply meant that the huge nation wanted Liet to say it himself, so that when they looked back on the event, only Liet could be directly blamed.

But honestly, there was nothing else Lithuania could offer him. Russia provided food, shelter, clothing, everything; there was nothing Lithuania could do that Russia couldn't also do. No other way. Liet was furious at himself, that he didn't see this coming, that he didn't realized that _of course_ the snowball fight was a trap, everything was a trap with Russia, that's just how he lived.

"I'll join the prisoners," he said quietly, thinking bitterly, _read as: I'm completely under your control and I admit it._

"Very honorable of you," Russia conceded with a nod, then roughly grabbed Liet by the arm and marched him over into the yard, forcing him to his knees between Estonia and Latvia.

"Sestri, ribbons and babushki please," Russia said, hand outstretched. The Baltics shot each other nervous glances.

The arctic nation took the ribbons and tied their hands behind their back, loose enough that it wasn't painful, but tight enough that they'd had to really try to get free; Lithuania felt a glimmer of fear and wondered how far Russia was going to take this war metaphor. When Russia used the babushki to blindfold Estonia, gently removing his glasses and tucking them into a pocket, Liet suspected very far.

Latvia was blindfolded next, and Lithuania last, Russia using his own scarf for lack of more babushki; right before the cloth was slipped over his eyes Liet saw the huge nation smiling at him in that sickly sweet way, and then he could see nothing. The scarf smelt of snow and vodka, intoxicating Russia.

They were hauled to their feet and led away and Liet could tell from the size of the hands on his arm that his guide was Russia. They came to a halt and he was released; Liet stood there uncertain, they hadn't walked very far, were they in the back yard? He thought he could hear Estonia and Latvia next to him…

"The court-martial convened under me will now pronounce sentence!" Russia declared loudly, and the Baltics jumped. Court martial? But—

"Eduard von Bock, Raivis Galante, and Toris Lorinaitis, you are hereby found guilty of conspiracy against the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and thus condemned to death by firing squad!"

Even in jest, the words filled Liet with dread. Latvia squeaked from somewhere off to his right.

"von Bock."

Sounds of footsteps—Liet imagined Estonia was being moved, made to stand in front of the house...

"Ready."

He wondered if Estonia was standing tall, if he was able to quell the tremors long enough to present a brave front. Just because it wasn't real didn't mean there wouldn't be a very real message in how they carried themselves in this 'game'.

"Aim."

Lithuania blinked. Was that… a click he heard?

"Fire!"

BANG, a splatter of snowballs.

Liet choked, stumbling forward a step, "Estonia!" as he heard Ukraine angrily chiding "Bratshika, that is too much!"

"Stand," Russia ordered, ignoring her.

No response from Estonia. Footsteps, something being dragged away, oh god, he was actually shooting them?!

"Galante."

Latvia whimpered as footsteps led him away. Liet stood there, frozen, knowing that bullets couldn't kill them, but it still hurt, still caused excruciating pain and Russia was just—

"Ready."

Latvia was crying.

"Aim." Another click.

"Please! Russia, stop, you win, you win, please—"

"Fire!"

Lithuania flinched at the gunshot, gritting his teeth as he heard Latvia collapse.

"Stand." Sounds of dragging… He morbidly wondered if Russia was doing head shots or aiming for the heart; they had to be perfect 'kills' each time.

"Lorinaitis."

Someone took him by the arm, walked him forward; he could tell it was Belarus. Lithuania almost laughed at the irony of it. She brought him to a stop and walked away, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

"Ready."

He was shaking but managed to keep his head up, his breath coming in quick shallow gasps. Trying to reassure himself with the thought that this wouldn't kill him didn't work.

"Aim." Click.

Oh god…

"Fire!"

BANG!

And snowballs peppered his body.

His brain refused to process anything.

A hand removed the blindfold. Numb, he gazed blankly at Russia standing there, smiling pleasantly with a Tokarev pistol pointed casually skywards, as the ribbon was untied. He offered no resistance as Ukraine led him off to the side where his brothers were: Latvia passed out cold, Estonia shaking violently, eyes wide and unfocused, white as a sheet. Liet tried to sit down properly but his legs gave out, nearly dragging Ukraine down with him. She lowered him to the ground, biting her lip and whispering "I'm sorry, Lithuania." He didn't reply, just tucked his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, silent as the grave.

Russia went inside, and at his insistence, so did Belarus and Ukraine. The Baltics didn't find the strength to move until nightfall.

---

Russia doesn't do that much physical damage, but he deals psychological damage in spades.

I hope everyone was able to follow the snowball fight scene; it was really difficult to keep track of everyone!

Ukraine's dish is a pork stew traditionally served during Maslenitsa, and Belarus's is plums stuffed with cheese. Liet's another pork dish usually served to guests. Estonia's and Latvia's dishes are in English because I don't know what they're called in their native languages, only Russian and English. ^^;

Very short author's note to make up for the last two chapters.

Read and review, comrades!


	9. Too Close for Comfort

After writing this chapter, I realized that I'd have to bump the rating from K+ to T, so please consider that your warning.

---

The Baltics were deathly quiet for the remainder of the sisters' visit; they didn't speak unless spoken to directly, and when they answered they mumbled, eyes to the floor. Gunshots and red snow haunted their nightmares, and by day they flinched at loud noises and at Russia—shortly after the snowball incident the huge nation thought it funny to suddenly shout "Fire!" and watch as the Baltics jumped so badly they dropped their dinner plates, china and food splattering across the kitchen floor. Russia had giggled and remarked that 'his countries were so adorable', while Ukraine frowned unhappily at him from across the room.

The last night of the sisters' stay they had another festive dinner; Russia cooked stacks of golden blini, which they ate slathered in butter and topped with red and black caviar, smoked salmon, cheese, sour cream, and various fruit jams (not all at once, of course). And as usual, Russia did his best to get everyone completely smashed before dessert, which was Ukraine's so-sweet-it-hurt medivnyk and steaming mugs of thick hot chocolate made with heavy cream and egg yolks. His plan partially worked: Ukraine was rather drunk by the end of the meal, Belarus slightly more than tipsy, Estonia probably drunk but not showing it, Latvia definitely drunk and showing it, and even Lithuania felt warmed and nearly at ease—impressive, considering the company.

Russia himself was also most likely drunk, a surprisingly pleasant sort of drunk. He ushered them all into the living room after dinner, telling the Baltics to worry about dishes later. They played Darok and he didn't turn it into a drinking game, although he and his sisters (and Latvia, to Lithuania and Estonia's dismay) continued to imbibe. Around one in the morning Estonia and Liet returned to the kitchen and did the dishes, leaving Latvia curled up in an armchair asleep, and by the time they returned Ukraine and Belarus had drifted off to bed, a long day of travel awaiting them in the morning. Russia took one look at them and pronounced Estonia dead on his feet—the particular phrase making them wince—and sent him to his room as well. Lithuania, he said, could sit a while yet.

Whatever moderately pleasing feelings Lithuania had vanished as his brother glanced away and collected the sleeping blond before leaving the room without a word. Liet swallowed, and sat down on the couch next to Russia.

"You had a good evening?" he queried, taking a shot. Liet had lost count of how many that had been since the start of dinner. Over a dozen, at least.

"Da, Russia Zimavich," he answered, staring at his hands clasped tightly on his lap.

"Xorasho, xorasho…" Russia mumbled. "I worry we will not be having these nights for a while soon."

Eh? He couldn't decipher what sort of warning was behind those words. The alcohol clouding his judgment?

"Germany's planning to invade England," the huge country continued, leaning back to recline on the sofa. He slowly swirled the drops of vodka left in the shot glass, contemplative. "War with him is inevitable, I think. His boss wants to swallow up all of Europe…"

Liet was silent, wondering why Russia was bothering to tell him this, Russia who never told him anything. Was he… worried?

"But he will not attack me right away, I don't think," the Russian continued, shifting his position against the arm rest, one leg on the couch, the other on the floor. "Nyet, it is still too soon after our nonaggression treaty. Even Germany wouldn't do that. Pass me that bottle, Litva."

Liet surrendered the vodka immediately; Russia took yet another shot—from the way he exhaled, the Baltic suspected that he might actually be reaching his limit.

"He has said he will attack England first, and that will take some time," Russia mused, watching the last bit of vodka fill up his glass. He put the finished bottle on the floor. "A year at least; England is stubborn," then, beckoning, "Come here."

The brunette hesitated, rapidly decided against trying to resist, and scooted slightly closer. Russia sat up slowly—Liet realized abruptly that Russia was trying not to startle him—and placed a hand at the base of Liet's neck, who quivered from the cold, noticeable even through his shirt, but he didn't dare pull away. But when the shot glass touched his lips he leaned back, protesting softly, "Ah, no, I can—", but Russia insisted wordlessly, tipping the drink back; the small stream burned all the way down, there was a reason vodka was downed in a single gulp. When the glass was empty, his inhale sounded more like a gasp.

A ghost of a smile curved Russia's lips and he stretched, putting the shot on the table, the quiet click of glass on wood in the silence of the room loud enough for Liet to tense. Russia made a sympathetic noise, rubbing his back in what Lithuania supposed was meant to be comforting, but it was all he could do to stop the shivers. When Russia's hand shifted to his shoulder and gently pulled, Liet's heart fluttered nervously, anxiety gripping him; and then the arctic nation hugged him, somewhat awkwardly, burying his face in Liet's brown hair. Chills raced down the smaller nation's body at every exhale.

"Oh Litva…" Russia murmured, and Liet heard sadness and concern and protectiveness and possessiveness and a half a dozen other things he couldn't identify in the time it took for him to process that Russia was indeed trying to be gentle, that whatever it was that he wanted he was willing to try and coax it out from the reluctant Baltic rather than simply take it by force. The smallest of whimpers escaped him at the awful thought—what would happen if he refused in spite of that 'kindness'?

Then Russia released him, moved to sit on the side of the couch as he turned, pushing down on Liet's shoulders, who threw out an arm and caught himself, stuttering "R- Russia Zimavich, I—" but what could he say? I don't want this, go to hell? He figured that much was obvious, and yet there he was.

Russia took him by the wrist and pulled slightly, "Lie down." And without the support, Lithuania fell sidewise down onto the couch, his stomach twisting into knots.

Kicking off his boots, Russia swung his feet up onto the sofa and laid down as well; Liet shifted as far away as possible, flattening himself into the sofa cushions, wondering wildly if there was any chance in shoving Russia onto the floor and making a run for it. But even his alcohol-soaked mind knew that was a stupid pointless plan, he was trapped between the back of the couch and Russia, an indifferent place and horribly dangerous one.

Russia adjusted, looping an arm under the trembling country and pulling him closer, flicking the tail of his army coat over them like a blanket.

"Relax," he soothed, his hand settling on the small of Liet's back. Pressed against his broad chest, head tucked under his chin, Lithuania could smell frost, that crisp just-before-snow scent; if he ignored the small circles Russia was tracing along the curve of his spine—impossible, he shuddered weakly at the completion of each one—he could almost imagine that Russia just wanted someone to hold, that he was content to just lie there on the couch with him, and that as long as Liet didn't-- didn't-- he couldn't even define 'what' it _was_, didn't draw attention to himself? Then the night would pass, he'd be okay, maybe Russia would even let him go up to his room and sleep. Desperate hope, pathetic rationalizations of events completely out of his control, but Liet clung to them as if they were the last thing he had (his pride had already been trampled underfoot).

Then Russia slid a hand up the back of his shirt, icy fingertips resting against bare skin, and Lithuania couldn't help it: he burst into terrified sobs.

"Please stop, Russia Zimavich, please," he pleaded, burying his face in his hands.

To his amazement, Russia did, removing his hand to lightly catch Liet's chin, tilting his tear-streaked face upwards, amethyst eyes meeting emerald ones. Lithuania couldn't find anything in Russia's cool gaze, a blank void that appeared to contain nothing, which he knew wasn't true, which only reinforced how well Russia lied. He glanced away, unable to bear that look for any longer.

"Please, Russia Zimavich," he repeated softly.

Russia searched his face for… something, then leaned forward and kissed him.

Lithuania froze, heart pounding, a jolt racing all the way down to his toes, hoping that the arctic nation would get the message if he didn't respond, but when he felt Russia's tongue flick against his lips, questioning, he jerked his head to the side, stuttering, "R- Russia—"

"One kiss," he whispered huskily, vodka on his breath, trailing a thumb along Liet's jaw. "You won't kiss me, so I'll just have to kiss—"

Lithuania's lips crashed into his, cutting him off mid-sentence, Russia's tiny sound of surprise allowing Liet to slip in his tongue; recovering from his shock, Russia kissed back, a warm noise rising in his throat as he shifted his weight for leverage, pushing the country down further into the cushions, wedging a knee between his legs--

Panicked, Liet broke off the kiss with a gasp, "Russia, stop, you said one—" but it had been a risky gamble and he knew it and as Russia tangled a hand in the brunette's hair, pulled his head back to plant kisses along the soft skin of his throat, Lithuania knew it had been exactly the wrong gamble to make. The drunken nation fumbled with the buttons on Liet's uniform, unfastening the top three to reveal the sweep of a pale shoulder, but Liet shoved his hands away, twisting under his weight, but there was no way—"Stop it, Russia!"—Russia moved, pinned him to the couch—"No, stop!"—biting just above the collar bone and Liet felt Russia's fist tighten in his hair at the pained cry; he tried pushing him away but he wasn't strong enough, Russia caught a wrist and pressed into down above Liet's head at an agonizing angle. Lithuania sobbed, turning his head away as Russia's free hand roamed farther down—his dignity, when had it come to this?—and his eyes widened, oh god, "Stop, Russi-ah! No, stop it, Russia—Belarus!!" pointing widely to the side.

Russia lurched back as if shot. Standing in the doorway in a white nightgown, long hair tussled from sleep, was Belarus, staring silently at the scene before her.

No one moved. Lithuania spared a swift glance at Russia, who at least had the decency to look mortified, though probably not because of what he was doing so much as _who_ caught him doing it. God, if it had been Estonia or Latvia, hell, even Ukraine, he probably would've just-

Russia wet his lips, his face scarlet, and started, "Belarus, I—"

She darted between the plush chairs, hands curled into fists, screeching "You bastard!"

"Wait, sestra!" Russia cowered, flinging his arms up to shield himself against the expected blow, but Belarus shoved him aside to punch Lithuania as hard as she could in the gut.

The air rushed out of his lungs with a whoosh; before he could take a breath, she was on him, straddling his hips, hands at his throat, crushing his windpipe, "How dare you fucking touch him, he's mine! I'll kill you!" Red spots popped up in his vision, a flash of metal-

"Belarus, nyet!" She was wrenched away, Russia hooking his arms around her shoulders and hauling her off, a knife clattering to the floor. Lithuania gasped, coughing, tried to get air into his lungs as he rolled off the couch, swaying as he stood, staggering into the coffee table.

Belarus was still shouting, kicking out violently, trying to slip free of her brother's grip. "Is this why, Russia?! You won't marry me because of this little bitch! This- This- twisted soirée!" She lunged and nearly broke free. "I hate you!" she shrieked, straining against Russia' strong arms. "I hate you! I hope you fucking _die!_"

"Go, Litva!" Russia ordered over her screams of fury, jerking his head towards the doorway. Belarus snarled, a vicious, desperate sound, as Liet fled, almost slipping as he rounded the corner and flew up the stairs, but something forced him to a stop. He paused, torn, then crouched down on the steps and listened, ignoring better judgment's demand to get the hell out of there.

The sounds of a scuffle lasted another minute, before a cry of anguish from Belarus and Liet could tell, from what little he could see of their feet from his vantage point, that Russia had released her.

"How could you, brat? How could you? We're going to get married and yet—"

"Sestra, we're _not_ getting married—"

"And yet you're fooling around with that spineless weakling?!"

"Belarus, unless my boss says otherwise, we're not getting married. You are already one with me, why do you insist on—"

"So are they, Russia! So are they! They're one with you too, Lithuania in particular, apparently!"

"Sestra—"

"I just want you, only you, brat, to myself. I don't want to have to share you…"

"But everyone's going to become one with me." Lithuania shivered at the certainty in his voice. "You'll have to share."

"Is he your favorite, brat?" Practically a demand. "The little ring-leader of the Baltic trio; if you can have him the others will just fall in line?"

"Sestra." A warning.

Lithuania saw Belarus turn away; a steely silence, then Russia stepped up behind her, her weight shifted, Liet imagined Russia was wrapping his arms around her.

"Keep your perversions, then," he heard her say faintly. "I'll marry you in the end, and no warped bitch of a country will get between us."

She stepped away, walking towards the—

Shit! Lithuania scrambled up the steps, rushing to his room as quietly as possible, shutting the door and diving into bed, feigning sleep. He heard Belarus's footsteps up the hall, a pause, then his door clicked open and those soft steps came across the floor. Nothing…

"You're lucky he wants you able to work," she hissed suddenly, right next to his ear. He barely suppressed a flinch, eyes remaining closed.

Something sharp flicked against his throat and he twitched, totally blowing his cover, not that he thought Belarus believed it in the first place. But he managed not to move any further, despite the sensation of wetness trickling down his neck.

Belarus made disgusted sound, and Liet heard her walk out. The minute the door shut, he threw off the blankets and clicked on the bedside lamp. At the sight of blood on his fingertips he kept pressure there and, after a short battle with indecision, crept down the thankfully empty hall to the bathroom. Latvia was passed out there, propped up against the cool ceramic bathtub—an obvious victim of too much vodka—Lithuania left him alone, inspecting his neck in the mirror.

A shallow sliver of a cut, barely an inch long, right over a bruising bite mark from Russia. A negation, a denial of what she saw, a warning that Russia was hers and hers alone, a reminder of how little force it would have taken to open his whole damn throat and watch him bleed out before anyone could have stepped in.

She was never going to go on a date with him, was she?

"Litva?"

He jumped. No, he'd had enough; he couldn't take anymore of this. He turned, unable to conceal the tremors raking his body.

Russia frowned, brow knitting in concern as his violent eyes trailed down to the cut, still uncovered. He stepped forward—Lithuania couldn't stop the impulse to step back, his heel knocking into the edge of the bath—and reached out; Liet didn't resist, letting the lightest of touches tilt his head back, exposing his throat, the steady trickle from the scratch. His heart sped up, his breath shortened, but an odd resignation slipped over him. He didn't want to say he was surrendering, but he knew that was what he was doing; he was too tired, his head too fuzzy, and fighting too futile. Russia leaned down, and Liet kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, blinking back tears.

Russia kissed his neck lightly and when he drew back there was red on his frozen lips. Without a word, he turned and left.

Lithuania stared at the spot he had been, frightened, exhausted, and utterly confused.

--

When he came downstairs the next morning, Ukraine and Belarus had already left. Russia was slumped into an armchair, head bowed forward, having presumably passed out after escorting his sisters to the station, if the boots still on his feet were any indication. Liet crept past the slumbering time bomb carefully into the kitchen. Judging from the empty plates on the table, they had grabbed a quick breakfast first, probably before dawn.

After he had finished dishes and started on breakfast, Russia half-stumbled into the kitchen, blinking in the artificial light. He frowned groggily at the lack of food on the table before walking over to the stove where Lithuania stood, casually looping an arm around the smaller country's waist. Liet stiffened instinctively; Russia didn't react, inspecting the sizzling eggs with mild interest—oh god, what possessed him to make an American breakfast?!—lightly tugging the spatula from Liet's trembling fingers to poke at the forming meal. Liet accepted the returned spatula automatically as Russia released him to go rummage through the pantry.

Lithuania swallowed and found his voice. "Good morning, Russia Zimavich."

Russia grunted, dumping bread, sausage, and chunk of hard cheese onto the table before packing them into a messenger satchel slung over one shoulder. From the cabinet he added a bottle of vodka for good measure and turned to leave.

"Going to work," he said shortly over his shoulder. "I'll be back late."

The front door opened, then shut.

And it went like that for several weeks as the snows melted into a slushy, muddy March. Russia left just after dawn, no time for breakfast, and returned hours after sunset, face streaked with grime, boots caked with mud. With the advent of spring, all the construction programs that had been halted because of the frozen earth—hospitals, schools, bridges, railroads—recommenced with a vengeance as Russia's boss continued his relentless march towards progress, heedless of his nation's growing fatigue.

And Russia was getting tired. He hid it well, unwilling to show any sign of possible weakness in front of the Baltics, but they noticed it: the sag of his shoulders, the hollowness of his gaze, they way he collapsed into his seat at dinner, wincing at the ache in his bones. One day Lithuania accidentally caught him hunched over the bathroom sink, gritting his teeth as he submerged his hands in freezing water, wincing at the raw blisters gained through long hours handling shovels and pick axes, hauling wheelbarrows of dirt, laying miles of track. The exhaustion had the odd effect of making him more docile, almost; the sudden flares of temper, terrible and more frequent, were much briefer, as if he simply didn't have the energy to stay angry at them.

On the bright side (and they had to look for a bright side, otherwise they didn't have the strength to keep going), the Baltics had the house pretty much to themselves during the day. After chores were finished they were able to spend their free time reading, playing chess, or simply relaxing, knowing the impending threat that was Russia wouldn't be back until night fall. (No one suggested the obvious, the dangerous, the hopeless desire to run, quickly, quietly, as fast as they could, while he was away.)

The pattern broke in late March, when the crocuses were just beginning to bloom along the edge of the house. The Baltics were in the kitchen trying to decide on breakfast, each suggesting national dishes, when Russia walked in, casually cuffing Latvia upside the head as he walked passed.

"Russian," he reminded them as he began cutting up a loaf of black rye bread.

Lithuania bit his lip; they had fallen back into the habit of speaking their own languages while the huge nation was out of the house for such long stretches of time. It was a stupid mistake to make; they were lucky he hadn't reacted violently, well, more seriously violent anyways. A whack off the back of the head was Russia being nice.

"Good morning, Russia Zimavich," he said, switching back into the now familiar tongue. "No work today?" He thought he did a good job of keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

"Not today," Russia nodded, deciding that they would have cold sandwiches for breakfast.

_Well, it was nice while it lasted_, Liet thought, wondering what had Russia home instead of performing back-breaking manual labor for his people. He couldn't imagine that his boss would just give him a day off for the hell of it.

A sharp knock at the door later that afternoon answered his question.

Poland was back.

---

Yay, Poland's back! Also, Belarus kinda, accidentally to the rescue, sorta? ^^;

A note on what Belarus said: yes, her words are somewhat homophobic. That's intentional, to reflect the overall attitude of the era; it is _not_ my personal opinion.

brat- brother (no, Belarus isn't calling Russia a brat, as funny as that'd be)

medivnyk- Ukrainian honey cake; it's so good, ridiculously sweet, requiring a cup of dark honey _and_ a cup of brown sugar.

Contrary to popular belief, Stalin did expect Germany to attack Russia. However, he didn't think Germany would break their treaty so _soon_, especially when Russia kept picking up German army broadcasts about invasion plans against England. Unfortunately, Germany was broadcasting those specifically to trick Russia into believing Germany would attack England first. ^^;;

Read and review, comrades!


	10. Revelations

This chapter's fairly Poland-heavy, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing... You know, there are only a few major scenes left in this fanfic, so maybe only two or three more chapters. I hope you'll continue reading to the end!

---

Lithuania almost didn't recognize Poland.

Standing despondently next to Germany as the strict nation exchanged curt pleasantries with Russia, Poland was a mere ghost of his former self. His cheeks were sunk in, the bones high and noticeable, and his wrists were skeletal, too angular to be normal. He was clothed again in drab grey rags that hung loosely off his frame, creating the impression that the boy was even scrawnier than he appeared.

But most shocking was his hair, what was left of it: the blond strands had been sheared short, shorter than Liet's, shorter than Russia's, hell, shorter than _Estonia's__._ And if the choppy lengths were any indication, whoever cut it hadn't really given a damn what he'd look like after.

Russia shut the door and turned to his reacquisition with an almost quizzical expression. "I am surprised; you look like a malchick for once," he said, ruffling what he could of Poland's hair.

The blond ducked his head but didn't pull away. Russia smiled, oddly triumphant, before shooing Poland towards the stairs.

The emaciated nation couldn't make it up the stairs to his room, even with Lithuania supporting him. They got about half way before Poland caught his foot on a step and tripped, cracking his knee into the hard wood with a darkly hissed curse, wincing as he forced himself back to his feet with a surge of determination. (Liet wondered abruptly if Poland was afraid of what would happen if he couldn't stand.) He stumbled again two steps later; Russia caught him, firmly detaching Poland from Lithuania's arm as he picked the blond up

—a mumbled, "Hey, put me down; I can like, walk on my own," to which the answer was a blunt "I am doubting this very much, Polshka,"—

and carried him the rest of the way to his room, Liet following doggedly behind. Russia deposited Poland onto his bed and covered him with a blanket before turning to leave, catching Liet by the shoulder as the Baltic tried to step past him.

"Nyet. Leave him be; he needs sleep."

"But—"

"_Litva._" The grip on his shoulder tightened painfully.

Lithuania followed Russia out.

Poland stayed there for a week, drifting in and out of consciousness, while life went on downstairs: Russia disappeared for work and the Baltics did chores. But in the spare moments in between one mind-numbing menial task and the next, they could sense Poland upstairs, a heavy weight pressing down on them through the ceiling. It was distinctly different from Russia, who was power and danger and lurking disaster—Poland was _proof_ of disaster, evidence that something awful was taking place, and the Baltics felt it and wondered what on earth was going on; they feared the answer would defeat what meager hope they had left.

And during snatches of time around meals Lithuania would indirectly confront that fear, would reluctantly nudge Poland awake for breakfast and lunch, spoon-feeding him a watery broth at Russia's instruction ("Anything else is too heavy, would make him sick"). He tried not to stare as the boy gingerly sat up, wincing from aches deeper than Lithuania could see. Liet wanted to ask about the letters—did he get any them? Did they vanish into the abyss that was the Russian system? Did Germany intercept them? On the topic of Germany: _what the hell was happening over there? _He wanted to ask, the desire burned a dark hole in his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to force the questions past his lips, not the ones about which he really wondered. He settled for others.

"What happened to your hair?" he asked quietly, mentally cringing from the lack of tact.

A shadow passed over Poland's face. "Germany cut it."

"Why?"

Poland glanced away, shrugged. "He said it was a like, a safety hazard or something, around the machines. He has me working at a textile factory," he added, seeing Liet's confused expression. "Making uniforms. For his soldiers."

For his safety, sure. That sounded like one of Russia's nonsense half-truths. But, making uniforms for German soldiers? That was just cruel, forcing Poland to help supply the very people currently overrunning his land.

"Before I was like, working at a, a whatcha-ma-call-it… Where you make bullets and stuff? Ammunition factory," Poland continued, emerald eyes glittering, something dark and angry surfacing for a moment. "But I figured out how to rig up a couple a things of gun powder. It was totally the best explosion ever. He moved me super fast after that." The accomplished look dropped. "And cut my hair," he finished, deflated.

Lithuania gaped at him. He _blew up_ an ammunition factory? He's lucky he only lost his hair! Liet couldn't even _imagine_ doing that with anything of Russia's.

"Well, whatever. Can I have lunch now?" Poland asked hopefully, dragging the Baltic back to the present. The hope in his voice was hurt, like he wasn't quite sure if he'd get food.

When Russia returned from work in the evening, he took over Lithuania's self-appointed job and fed the blond dinner. Lithuania was quietly amazed, and slightly betrayed, to see Poland's unchallenging acceptance of this, but he reasoned that, by the looks of things, Poland didn't care who gave him food as long as he got food.

_Oh Poland, what has Germany done to you? _

A week after his return, Poland finally mustered the strength to come downstairs. Latvia and Estonia looked properly horrified at the state of the subdued nation, but Liet felt that the obvious changes, the loss of weight and the like, were not as frightening as the subtle ones. There was an odd tension in Poland that was evident just under the surface, a coiled spring, a sense of constant awareness in the hopes that the next threat wouldn't catch him off-guard. Liet wondered why he hadn't noticed it the week before and once he knew what the signs were, he began to see the same in Estonia and Latvia as well. He suspected he showed it too, though he couldn't see it in his reflection, and wondered how he didn't notice before.

Poland never stayed downstairs for long, lingering after meals for a few minutes before going back to his room. He still wasn't doing chores (and no one was going to demand that he start, especially not looking the way he did), so there really wasn't any reason he should be downstairs, but Liet still found it odd, and maybe a touch unnerving, if he was being honest with himself, to see Poland drift around the house, quiet and bored, rather than pestering him. Yet it wasn't completely boredom, Liet mused as he dusted, watching Poland out of the corner of his eye as the blond toyed absently with a matroshka; no, it wasn't boredom so much as… displacement? He looked lost, like he wasn't sure where he was or why he was there.

Still, the disaffected nation put a serious effort into appearing alright when he noticed someone watching, whining good-naturedly when Liet beat him at chess, complaining that he didn't have his 'totally awesome and, like, super cute uniform' to wear any more, instead being stuck with Lithuania's few spare clothes. But the haunted look in his eyes gave his statements an eerie feeling, revealing a yawning void behind them where natural unforced happiness used to dwell. He fell into the Baltics' habit of pretending that everything was okay as easily as they did; it was too painful to consider the alternative for any length of time.

When Lithuania saw Poland standing by the window absently holding his left shoulder, a gesture that simultaneously covered his heart, he had to forcibly stop the train of thought that wondered if Poland was going to make it out of this god-forsaken war.

--

Early April found them around the dinner table yet again, a simple meal of pelmeny and seledka pod shuboy; with winter done and spring yet to yield anything, the pantry was somewhat bare. Poland was still inhaling food like he was afraid he'd never eat again, leaving the table silent save for the clink of silverware on china. But towards the end of the meal, when Poland began to slow down, he stood and asked, actually asked Russia without having to be reminded, if he could be excused for a minute. Lithuania frowned; he hoped the blond wasn't about to be sick.

Poland returned five minutes later, delicately holding a kerchief-wrapped something and Liet felt a tight ball of worry curl up in his stomach. He tried to catch Poland's eye; what was he doing? But Poland stood by his seat and grinned widely, the mask of 'everything's-okay-I'm-fine' firmly in place.

"So, I like, dunno how you guys all, like, forgot or whatever, but like, it's totally Easter—"

Liet sucked in a sharp breath, shooting a gaze at Russia, who stared expressionlessly at the blond. Why, _why_ did Poland's attempts to appear normal have to automatically include 'piss off Russia'?

"—and I made you guys all pisanki, even you Russia; here, aren't they so totally awesome?"

He plucked a fragile red and white egg from the midst the kerchief and handed it to Latvia, who took it with cupped hands, eyes wide.

"It's beautiful," he whispered in Latvian.

"Poland," Lithuania hissed, hoping to get his attention.

But Poland didn't hear him, or ignored him if he did, handing a blue, black, and white egg to Estonia, who accepted it silently, fearful eyes darting to Russia and back to his egg as if to ask, is it okay to take this? Will you get angry at me? Still, Russia didn't move.

"Here's yours, Liet; it's like, painted with all your colors and stuff." Poland turned the egg slowly to show him. "See? It's got like, chickens and ponies and wheat and stuff, totally like what we used to have, you know? I—"

"Poland," Russia said evenly from his seat; the room fell silent, even Poland bit back the rest of his sentence. The arctic nation carefully put down his fork and knife. "Go to your room."

"What?" The confusion in Poland's voice quickly morphed into annoyance as he passed Liet his egg; the Baltic took it for lack of a better idea. "Why? For like, giving you guys pisanki? That's dumb."

"Poland!" Lithuania whispered in horror, hiding the pisanka under the table.

Russia merely repeated himself in that same measure tone. "Poland, go to your room. Now."

"But I haven't finished din—"

"To your room!" Russia thundered, slamming his hands on the table as he stood, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Everyone jumped; Poland recovered the fastest.

"Fine! See if I make _you_ pisanki again," he grumbled, leaving the cloth on the table as he slunk from the kitchen. "Jerk."

Lithuania winced.

Russia didn't move until Poland's footsteps faded away; calmly, he picked up his chair and resumed dinner as if nothing had changed. The Baltics forced themselves to continue as well. Not wanting to display the egg on the table in full view, Liet kept it in his lap, half convinced that Russia would confiscated them anyways at the end of the meal. Estonia followed suit, while Latvia idiotically left his next to his glass.

The kerchief lay where Poland had left it, hiding the last pisanka from sight.

As the meal continued through the uneasy silence, Lithuania found himself wondering why Poland would do that. He had to know it was an awful idea; was it really only a stab at Russia? Liet had thought Poland wouldn't have the energy for that, it certainly didn't _look_ like he had the energy for that. Was it worth it? Although...

If Poland really _was_ dying, could Lithuania blame him for holding onto his traditions come hell or high water?

He shook his head, chasing away the thought and earning himself a questioning glance from Estonia. Don't think about that. Poland will be fine. Think about something else, anything else. He thought of the beautifully painted pisanka in his lap, they way Poland's odd personal style blended with the more conventional images to create a unique fusion. But really…

How on earth did Poland manage to make pisanki in the first place? Had he made them at Germany's and brought them back with him? No, he hadn't come with any luggage. Was that why he had been spending so much time up in his room? That had to be it… But, where did he get the dye, the equipment from? It couldn't be hi—

Lithuania nearly choked. It was Russia's, it had to been Russia's. Poland must have been poking around the house while everyone was busy with chores, either specifically looking for pisanki tools or finding them by accident, and had taken them _without Russia's permission_ to make them pisanki as an Easter surprise.

If Poland had any sense at all, he was barricading his door with all of the furniture in his room.

Dinner ended. Estonia and Latvia began to clear the table; Lithuania collected the cloth napkins, studiously ignoring the kerchief.

Russia stood and moved to block Lithuania's path to the sink.

"Your pysanka," he said pleasantly, hand outstretched.

Lithuania repressed a sigh and retrieved it from his seat, handing over the egg with a resigned sadness. Russia smiled at him and collected Estonia's and Latvia's from the table as well, slipping them into the kerchief without looking at the last one that was undoubtedly his. He carried them carefully across the room; Lithuania saw where he was headed, his mouth opening partially in a voiceless complaint—

Russia crushed the kerchief into a tiny ball, a pleased little smile tilting his lips as he did so, the audible crunch thunderously loud in the silence of the kitchen. When he shook out the cloth, thousands of multicolored shards rained down into the wastebasket. All those _hours_ of work…

Latvia sniffed.

Dropping the offending kerchief into the trash as well, Russia turned and headed for the doorway into the living room, that gleam in his eye, an almost-anticipation look—

"Russia Zimavich!" Lithuania blurted suddenly, cringing as the man's pale gaze swiveled to rest on him. "I—"

_Please, please, don't hurt Poland, I'm sorry he made pisanki, I'm sorry he called you a jerk, I'm sorry he doesn't know when to be quiet, please don't hurt him, I don't think he could take it, he's too thin, please—_

"P- Please have a good night," he finished lamely.

Russia blinked, then smiled; Liet suspected the huge nation knew exactly what he had failed to say. "Spasiba, Litva," he said kindly, stepping up to the brunette and planting a kiss in his soft hair. One last crooked grin and he walked out.

Lithuania swallowed thickly, clutching the dirty napkins to his chest like a shield. He looked up and saw Estonia and Latvia staring, expressions a mixture between frightened and worried. Liet flushed a deep red.

"I- It's not— He didn't—"

"Maybe we should start the dishes," Estonia cut him off politely, sparing his brother further embarrassment. Liet agreed gratefully and as they worked he listened, ears trained for sounds that Poland was… not okay.

They didn't come.

Lithuania thanked whatever gods might be listening.

--

Amazingly, there seemed to be no repercussions from the pisanki, as far as Lithuania could tell. He didn't know why, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. Poland, on the other hand, had complained and then sulked when Lithuania had explained, forced by the blonde's persistent questioning about where Liet's pisanka was, what Russia had done with them.

"What a jerk," he muttered, knees tucked up to his chest as he sat on the couch. Their conversations had been in Polish lately, the blond refusing to speak Russian unless said country was in ear-shot, whether from pride or rebellion Liet didn't know. "They're just pisanki. It's not like a couple of colored eggs could totally bring down the communist regime or whatever…"

Lithuania glanced up from sweeping the living room. "You know, he probably has the house wired," he said quietly.

"Yeah, well, Russia can like, go to hell," Poland groused.

"Poland—"

"Oh wait, he like, outlawed religion, didn't he? So then, capitalist paradise? That'd totally be like hell to him, wouldn't it?"

"Poland, the house? _Bugged?_" Lithuania insisted.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Poland waved Liet's concern away, but fell silent, wrapping his arms around his knees. Lithuania shook his head. He warned Poland the last time he was here, that Russia probably wired the house, sticking little microphones where people won't notice them. Lithuania had accidentally found no less than seven in his room over the course of his stay, and he suspected there were more.

He hadn't removed any of them.

At least Poland was looking somewhat better, filling out somewhat now that he had a steady supply of food again. Lithuania was grateful, but the fact that coming to stay with _Russia_ was actually helping Poland only served to reinforce how truly horrendous living with Germany must be. He couldn't quite wrap his head around what could possibly be worse.

Cleaning finished, to the kitchen to make dinner. Poland tried listening to the radio and got sick of it, slamming it off and proclaiming that 'even his stupid music is like, full of communist shit'. Latvia looked like he was going to complain (about what? Poland? The absence of music?) but a meaningful look from Estonia kept him silent. Russia came home and anxiety descended upon the house; they had dinner, Poland didn't do anything stupid, Russia didn't seem interested in pestering Lithuania with random trivia-like questions about recent policy changes, and Estonia and Latvia remained as quiet as usual. Same old day, a normal day—

Lithuania cringed. Russia noticed, head cocked to the side in curiosity. "Chto, Litva?"

He shook his head. _A normal day at Russia's house_. He pushed his food around his plate, his appetite gone.

Russia vanished upstairs after dinner and the rest cleaned up; Poland couldn't dodge chores in the evenings, not when the arctic nation was around to enforce his 'everything is being shared' ideals. He still slacked off though, taking an inordinate amount of time with each dish, letting Estonia and Latvia put away most of them. When they were done, Lithuania retreated upstairs to the bathroom.

Yet again cursing the lack of locks in the house, he undressed and laid his clothes out next to the bath. Turning on the faucet, he climbed in and the hot water roared into the tub around him, drowning out the strains of Tchaikovsky coming from Russia's office.

A normal day at Russia's house… The phrase drifted back to him as he washed his hair. When had any of this been normal? When had an uneventful day—cleaning, cooking, servant's work at its most basic—become normal, _acceptable_? A small jolt of pain as he scrubbed down with soap, his eyes fixing on a bruise near his hip; Russia had shoved him a few days ago. Was risk of injury normal now too? Living in constant fear of his safety, completely dependent on Russia's good will and mood… A good day, a normal day, was not getting hit, was avoiding Russia's attention. _All _of it, he shuddered, recalling an arm around his waist, a hand slipping up his shirt. And there wasn't anything he could do to the contrary, nothing in his power to stop… The idea of _staying_ here—

Lithuania took a breath and sunk under the water, watching tendrils of brown hair wave languidly in front of him. His heart beat in his ears, whispering the steady rhythm of his people's lives.

He wanted to go home.

Through the water, he heard an odd stream of noise, a far away echoing sound, low and quiet. Frowning, he came up for air.

"—That's _mine_, you jerk, give it ba—"

"Where did you get this?!"

Oh shit.

Lithuania scrambled out of the bath, drying himself quickly with a towel—

"You went through my room!! You totally went through my room! You can't _do_ that!"

THUMP, a groan and Liet dragged on his pants, threw on his shirt—

"You have a room through _my_ good graces, Polshka, and that's it. Now _tell me_ where you got this!"

Another THUMP—screw it, no time to finish buttoning the shirt; Lithuania wrenched open the door and stepped out into the hall.

Russia had Poland pinned against the wall, one hand gripping the collar of his shirt, the other brandishing a… magazine?

"Liet!" Poland yelled as he spotted the Baltic, straining against Russia's hold. "He went through my room and stole my magazine! He—"

The huge nation jerked him forward and slammed him back into the wall. "This magazine is _from America,_" he snarled, whacking Poland over the head with it. "How did you get it?"

Lithuania processed this information very fast: not only did Russia bug the house, but the paranoid nation searched their rooms as well. Liet saw the English lettering and could've cried from dismay— _Poland, why why would you keep that in the house?!_

Instead he pleaded, "Russia Zimavich, _please_, let him go, he won't do it again—"

"Why do you care how I got it? I have it, don't I?" Poland challenged, defiant in the face of Russia's fury.

"Who gave this to you?" Russia demanded. "Germany? Italia?"

"You can't stop us from_ reading_, Russia—"

_Oh god, Poland, yes he can!_

"Who gave this to you?!" Russia bellowed, shaking him.

Liet took a hesitant step forward. "Russia Zimavich, please stop!" Why couldn't he _do _anything?!

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you!" Poland shouted. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

Russia stilled, eyes searching the blonde's face, calculating. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

Lithuania bit his lip. _This is your chance Poland, don't mess it up, please, where is your sense of self-preservation…_

"You really want to know where I got it from?" Poland taunted, chest heaving. "I got it from _you_, Russia. Yeah that's right," he added nastily, seeing the flash of confusion followed swiftly by angered understanding. "I got it from one of your own citize_—_"

Russia flung the magazine aside and punched Poland in the jaw, knocking the blond to the floor. Lithuania gasped, closing the distance between them, "Russia Zimavich!"

"From one of your own! Your own people hate you, Russia!" Poland announced in his native tongue.

Russia's eyes flashed and he hauled the blond partially to his feet. "In Russian!" he demanded. Liet halted, surprised by the revelation. Russia didn't know Polish?

Poland continued on regardless. "Go on and hit me, you jerk. You can't do anything! You're nothing!"

"Russian!"

"Screw you, you damn drunk! You're stupid and ugly and _fat_—"

Lithuania couldn't stop the snort of laughter fast enough. Russia dropped Poland and whirled on him, furious.

"What did he say?!"

The Baltic backed up, stuttering apologies, oh god someone help him—

"And your sister's a total psycho," Poland declared, abruptly switching back to Russian. "Which is like, really funny, 'cause she definitely wasn't that crazy when she was living with me!"

"Poland!" Liet shouted in horror as Russia turned back to the doomed nation. He took a step forward; hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him back.

"Stop, Lithuania," he heard Estonia say desperately; they, Estonia and Latvia, both pulled him down the stairs, nearly toppling over.

"But Poland!" He could he the blond cry out in pain, shouting obscenities at the stronger nation. "I need to—"

Estonia spun him around. "You can't help him," he stated firmly, grip tight on his shoulders. "I _know_, he's your friend," he continued, speaking over Liet's protest. "But we can't afford to have you both—"

A shriek of agony rent the air and Estonia flinched. "We can't stand to see that happen to you," he whispered.

Lithuania clenched his teeth, seeing the concern in his brothers' eyes, and couldn't hold back.

He cried. For Poland, for them, for himself: all helpless in the face of Russia's wrath.

Helpless in the face of Russia.

---

Oh Poland, why do you do these things?

Again I lament that the Soviet Union did away with religion; I'd love to go over Russian Easter traditions in more detail. My family made kulich (Easter bread), paskha (Easter cheesecake, sort of... You eat it spread on the bread), pysanky (the elaborately decorated eggs), krashanky (the solid color dyed eggs), etc. We brought krashanky to the graves of my great-grandparents, my great-aunt, and my grandfather, and played 'Trial of the Krashanka', where you tap an egg against your opponent's in the hopes of cracking theirs without breaking your own. You do this until there's only one krashanka left, and that person has good luck. (I lost in the final round, to my mother...)

Pysanky are elaborately decorated eggs made through a time-consuming process of waxing and dyeing the uncooked egg. You draw designs on the egg with hot wax using a kistka (kinda like a pencil) and dye the egg in sequence, progressively darker colors, and at the end you _carefully_ melt the wax off to reveal the finished egg. When I say it takes time, I'm not kidding. I made two eggs this year, about medium-hard difficulty, and it took me _nine hours_. Of course, I had to share the kistka which ate up some time, but at best it would have taken six hours, so... Interesting note: Poland calls them 'pisanki' and Russia calls them 'pysanky'; pronounced the same, but different spelling. Lithuania uses Poland's spelling because they used to be the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Ukraine also calls them pysanky, and she's the one who taught Russia how to make them (it's originally her tradition).

Oh! The reason Russia didn't immediately react when Poland said "It's Easter guys!" is because to Russia, it _wasn't _Easter: Russian Orthodox Easter (of the Eastern Orthodox branch) and Polish Nation Catholic Easter (of the Roman Catholic branch) are on different days (usually--this year they were on the same day!)

Vocab:

malchick- boy

pelmeny and seledka pod shuboy- pelmeny are meat-filled dumplings, and seledka pod shuboy is herring with vegetables (it translates literally as 'herring with sheepskin/fur', because it used to be cooked in it)

spasiba- thank you (I can't remember if I've used this before or not...)

And for your entertainment, my sister made the pyasnky that Poland made in this chapter. I made two pysanky to represent the sort of work Russia would do, if he had made any. Please enjoy! http:// s11. photobucket .com/ albums/ a160/ KeeperofShadows/ Hetalia%20Pysanky/ (Please remove the spaces.)

Read and review, comrades!


	11. Splintering

The bad news is that this chapter's a little shorter than the last one. The good news is that the next chapter is almost completely finished, so hopefully a quick following update will balance things out?

---

The sounds of violence stopped a few minutes later; Liet whispered a heartfelt thank you that at least Russia didn't drag it out.

Creeping up the stairs and peeking down the hall, he glimpsed the huge nation disappearing into Poland's room, a limp body in his arms. He reemerged a moment later, empty-handed; Liet ducked out of view, heart pounding, heard a door open and the sounds of something heavy hitting the wood floor. He risked another glance—the door to his room was open.

Russia was ransacking his room. Of course. If Poland was guilty, then Liet was obviously his accomplice. But he had no contraband items, so he was fine. Nothing to be done about it.

But, while the arctic nation was distracted, could he…? No, better not risk it. He slipped back downstairs to the kitchen. He'd go check on Poland when Russia wasn't on the war path.

Estonia had made tea. Lithuania accepted a cup gratefully, fingers curling around the burning china as if hoping the physical pain would outweigh the rest. The Baltics huddled around the table, focused on their drink, trying to purge the echoes of Poland's beating from their thoughts.

"He has no common sense," Estonia remarked after a few minutes of silence.

"He's stubborn," Liet responded, flinching as something crashed to the floor upstairs.

The taller brother sighed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Russia in a bad mood puts us all at risk," he said, choosing his words carefully.

Lithuania frowned. "Are you saying that this is Poland's fault?"

"No," Estonia answered mildly. "But he…"

"He causes problems on purpose," Latvia interjected.

"What do you expect _me_ to—"

"All I'm trying to say," Estonia said evenly, before his brothers could start arguing, "is that when Poland pulls these sorts of stunts, we all suffer for it."

Lithuania was silent, knowing Estonia was right and knowing that it wasn't going to change anything. "He's not going to stop, you know," he murmured.

"I am not so sure."

The Baltics jumped, tea sloshing onto the table, Latvia's cup slipping to the floor and shattering loudly.

Russia leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. "Litva. Come with me," he said, beckoning as he straightened and headed for the stairs.

What now? He couldn't have found anything in his room, Liet didn't _have_ anything there.

His brothers stared resolutely at the table as he followed the huge nation out.

Through the living room, up the stairs, down the hall. Lithuania glanced into his room as they passed by—desk drawers emptied, sheets thrown to the floor, bookshelves cleared—a small disaster zone. It was going to take forever to clean that up…

Russia opened the door to his office and held it, waiting expectantly. Liet came to a halt, unwilling to go further. Into Russia's office? Might as well walk straight into the tundra in the dead of winter, emphasis on dead.

Seeing his hesitation, the arctic nation nudged, "After you, Litva."

Taking a slow breath for composure, Lithuania crossed the threshold; Russia entered and the door clicked shut behind them.

A chill settled over Liet like an early frost. _I'm in Russia's office. This is a whole new level of bad_.

The room wasn't any larger than the bedrooms, with most of the spacing along the left wall devoted to bookshelves. To the right of the door was a liquor cabinet that looked like it had been lifted out of a noble's house, a stark contrast to the decrepit phonograph next to it resting atop a small shelf neatly lined with records. A desk occupied the room's back center, a high-backed chair behind it, two smaller chairs in front of it. Directly behind the desk hung the Soviet flag, huge and bright—the focal point of the room even more so than the desk, it commanded attention immediately, left no question as to the owner's loyalty. To its right was a framed picture of Lenin, and to the left a faded poster from 1918, a stern soldier pointing at the reader with the text, 'Citizen, have you joined the Red Army?' Lithuania was certain that the only apolitical thing in the entire room was the painting of a sunflower field next to the window— he knew the framed picture of a snowy birch forest on the window's other side symbolized 'the spirit of Russia', who was presumably about to hurt him.

"Please, take a seat, Litva," the huge nation said amiably, all politeness and courtesy as he seated himself behind the desk. Liet wondered if that wasn't the tone he used when dealing with human diplomats.

The Baltic sank into the chair in front of him, thoughts racing. _I'm in trouble, I don't know why; please let me get out of this in one piece._ He could feel the faint tremors beginning.

"So," Russia began, taking an envelope out of his pocket and placing it on the polished surface of his desk. "You are writing letters to Germany?"

A letter, addressed to Germany first with Poland's name underneath—

Liet's stomach twisted.

"No!" he blurted, panicked. "Not to Germany! T- To Poland…" The last letter he had written to Poland, he hadn't sent it because the blonde had come back, oh god, why hadn't he destroyed it?!

"Hm, I can believe that," Russia said, extracting the letter and looking at it curiously. "It's entirely in Polish, a language I'm sure Germany considers beneath his study." He paused, offering the letter to the Baltic, who took it with trembling hands. "Read it. Aloud."

Shaking visibly, Liet struggled to read the wavering words, translating to Russian as he did. "D- Dear Feliks,"—_ a comma meant that things were okay_— "I hope this l- letter finds you in better health than w- when I last saw you. I haven't gotten a-any word from you; I wonder if you're getting these m- missives at all. I'm getting a lot better at cooking Russian food, though I've ruined two sh- shirts—" _shirts,_ _I've been interrogated twice_ "—with stains. Ivan's sisters came to visit for a week; we went ice skating and had a sleigh ride and a s- sn- snowball fight…" Lithuania barely managed the word, remembering gun shots, and almost couldn't continue. "The snow's melting now though, finally. Winters here are very long." A snort of amusement from Russia; Liet paused but the man didn't say anything. "I- Ivan is out of the house most of the day, working. He's building new railroads and schools, and training with his soldiers..." Liet swallowed, wetting his lips and continuing. "Feliks, if you get this letter at all, write me back. I- I need to know if you're okay. Let me know if you need new shoes—" _shoes, Do you have food?_ The unwritten question:_ Is Germany still starving you?_ "M- Maybe Ivan will let me send you a pair. I hope to hear from you soon. Signed, Toris…"

Lithuania lowered the paper slowly, staring at the wood grain pattern on the front of the desk, waiting for the arctic nation's reaction.

"This is what you wrote verbatim?" Russia queried.

The Baltic nodded jerkily. _Please believe me…_

Russia held out his hand, took the letter back. "I will get an official translation tomorrow," he said casually, tucking the letter back into the envelope. "You should be more careful with what you write, Litva. People see letters like this, written in Polish of all things, they worry." He chuckled, a bemused smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "You wouldn't want people to think you're spying, da? Or better yet, plotting a resistance!"

Russia dismissed him. Lithuania managed to get down the stairs before he broke into a run, pushing past his brothers to burst out the kitchen door into backyard. He staggered into the side of the house and lost his dinner.

The warning was clear: don't send letters to Poland, or I will charge you with inciting rebellion. Liet sagged against the wall, gulping the cool night air like a fish would water, staring up at the black sky speckled with stars. Gradually his heart rate calmed and the tremors subsided, and Lithuania went back inside.

"Are you alright?" Estonia asked the minute he walked in.

"I'm fine," Liet lied easily. "Russia just had a question, that's all. It's fine now."

And he desperately hoped that was true.

--

Lithuania heard nothing more about the letter.

Poland was under solitary confinement again, until he 'learned proper manners'. Liet almost laughed at this—proper manners, Poland? But this meant the duration of the confinement was dictated by Russia's fickle whims, and in the meantime Liet was back to sneaking into Poland's room. Yet he quickly found this nearly impossible. Russia's schedule was suddenly sporadic; some days he went to work on the construction projects, other days he stayed in his office, sending Lithuania out of the house to deliver this message here or retrieve these things from there. And the huge nation abruptly decided that Liet could handle all of the shopping himself as well, demanding that Estonia and Latvia stay home to assist with the chores (and by assist, Russia really meant that they could do the chores themselves). Of course, Liet always seemed to have the greatest number of errands when Russia was out of the house. Oh, and Estonia and Latvia would take Poland his meals, as Liet was far too busy…

Lithuania saw what Russia was doing—divide and conquer, keep him away from Poland—and resented it, but there was nothing he could say except, 'Da, Russia Zimavich; of course, Russia Zimavich'. He took Estonia aside when he could and asked him about the confined blond, but Estonia shook his head: Poland wouldn't talk to him. He was pretty battered though, his wrist swollen, probably sprained—he has it wrapped at least.

Estonia fidgeted and looked away, mumbling, "He said he wanted to see you."

But Liet couldn't find any time. Whenever Russia was out of the house, he gave the Baltic so much to do that Liet didn't get back until shortly before Russia did. And he didn't dare try it when the huge nation was home, not when Russia seemed dead-set on accusing him of collaborating with Poland. Just looking for an excuse…

But a week and a half after Poland was first confined, Lithuania threw caution to the wind and tried sneaking into Poland's room one afternoon while Russia was home.

And found the door locked.

Cursing silently, the Baltic retreated to his room for a paper clip to pick the lock. Of course Russia decided to lock Poland in this time around. He paused at his desk as he bent the clip out of shape, hesitating. This was truly an _awful_ idea, Russia could come out of his office and catch him at any moment, and there was _no_ possibilityof talking his way out of that…

But he peeked at Russia's door, then bolted to Poland's as quietly as he could, jamming the bit of metal into the keyhole. Heart pounding in his ears, he jiggled the lock, praying the teeth fell into place and—

He tried turning the knob and it opened. The breath he hadn't known he was holding rushed out in relief and he darted in quickly.

The look of caution and fear melted from the blonde's face the minute he saw who it was. He let out a shaky laugh.

"Geez, Liet, like, knock or something before you come in, yeah? I like, totally thought it was Russia again…"

Lithuania opened his mouth, closed it, and tried again. "How are you feeling?" Poland looked _terrible_…

The boy slouched back on his bed, leaning against the wall. "Pretty shitty," he admitted, flipping his hair out of his face self-consciously. One of his eyes was blackened, and the bruise on his jaw stretched across to his healing split lip. His left wrist was tightly wrapped in a length of gauze, but there was no blood. "Wasn't as bad as last time. He totally screwed up my wrist though, the jerk." He wiggled his fingers experimentally, suppressed a wince. "At least it wasn't my right."

Lithuania nodded slowly. "Yeah…" Why was Poland still in such rough shape? His wounds should have healed by now; it had been nearly two weeks… "What have you been up to?" he asked, not seeing any books or papers near the blond.

"Oh, nothing really. Thinking. You were right about the bugs; I found one," Poland leaned over and tapped the light shade of the lamp on the bedside table. "So I've been singing, like, my national anthem and random songs, _God Save Poland, Sacred Love of the Beloved Homeland, The Oath, _you know, stuff like that."

"Good god, Poland…" Lithuania muttered. Right next to the wire… It's a wonder Russia hadn't gagged the boy yet. Although, Russia didn't speak Polish, so there was no way he'd know that all of those songs were highly patriotic and about as rebellious as possible against foreign occupiers.

Poland frowned at him. "So, like, what took you so long?" he demanded.

"I was trying to wait for when he wasn't home, but he's been keeping me really busy," Liet explained, coming over to the bed. No need to explain who he was.

"So he's gone now?"

"No… I came anyways," Lithuania muttered, thinking of Russia sitting a few rooms away.

Poland's grin was so bright it hurt. "That's awesome," he said. "I like, knew you had it in you, definitely." He paused, the smile fading slowly. "I was worried, when you didn't come," he admitted, sounding vaguely embarrassed. "I thought maybe you felt too guilty for not helping me…"

Lithuania blinked. "What?"

"When Russia was beating me up, duh," Poland said with a touch of exasperation. "But like, you came today, so you're obviously not a wuss, you know? Hey, do you think you could get me something not full of communist bullshit? He totally took everything out of my room that wasn't—"

"Poland, what was I supposed to do?" Liet interrupted. "I couldn't stop Russia."

"Probably not on your own, yeah, but that's why we work together. If we both—"

The room was still bugged. "We're not working together."

"What?" Poland sounded confused.

Lithuania shut his eyes briefly, hating what he was about to do. "Poland, I can't… fight Russia the way you do," he confessed. The smile faded from his friend's face. "You can resist, but I can't- I can't help you. I can't risk my people that way—"

"Oh what, you think I don't care what happens?" the blonde snapped, sitting up straight.

_Shit_. "No, that's not what I meant, I—" Liet tried to backpedal, but Poland rode over him.

"You think I'm doing this for fun, Liet? You think I don't _know_ that Russia could take this out on my people?" he asked in disbelief, then anger. "I'm doing this for _them_. They're so strong, they give me strength—they _want_ this, I could never even do it if it weren't for them!"

"Poland, I didn't mean—"

"I don't know how you _aren't_ fighting," Poland said, voice steadily growing louder. "I don't understand how you can just _sit there_ and let him walk all over you!"

"I'm trying to protect my people!" Lithuania defended.

"By whoring yourself out to Russia?!"

Liet gaped, stunned into silence. H- had he just actually suggested…?

Poland was scarlet. "D- Don't think I don't notice how he looks at you, how he- he- _touches _you," he continued haltingly, clutching the blankets tightly. "And you just _let_ him—"

"I am _not_ sleeping with Russia," Liet ground out through gritted teeth, fists clenched at his side.

The look on Poland's face told the Baltic that Poland desperately wanted to believe him, but fell short. "Then why—"

"Because he could beat the shit out of me without even trying!" Liet exploded, flinging his arms out. "Because he could _kill_ my people! Because I can't do a god-damned thing to stop him; I'm not strong enough! Because I'm _scared_, I don't know what to do, I can't do anything! I can't help anyone! Not you or my brothers or my people or myself!" He could feel the tears streaming down his face, matching the words that poured from his mouth. "We can't win against Russia, Poland! We just can't. Not right now at least…"

"You've got to _try_, Liet—"

"I _am_ trying!" Lithuania protested. "I'm trying to keep my people alive!"

"What's it going to take to get you to fight back, Liet? A massacre?" Poland demanded incredulously.

Lithuania bit back a completely inflammatory retort and counted to five. "Okay, obviously we can't have this conversation right now," he managed, wiping his cheeks dry. "I'm going to go, alright? I'll be back when I can get away again."

"Fine. Be that way," Poland sulked.

The Baltic shut his mouth and walked out, shutting the door behind him. Oh Poland… He didn't want to have that conversation… But he supposed it had to happen sooner or later. The rebellious blond might be fine with resisting, blowing up ammunition factories and mouthing off to Russia, but Lithuania didn't want to bring any more misfortune on his people than they already had. It didn't mean that Liet wouldn't fight Russia given the opportunity, but he'd rather risk his people when he knew there might actually be a chance to win…

He sighed, and turned to head to his room—

And gasped, jumping back in shock.

Russia was watching him, leaning nonchalantly against the door to his office.

Trembling, Liet stuttered incoherently for a moment before he could get anything intelligible out. "R- Russia Zimavich, I- I-"

Russia's lips twisted into a smirk for an instant before all emotion fell away; he straightened and came over—Lithuania backed away, shielding himself against the expected blow, but Russia stopped before Poland's door, removed a key from his pocket and relocked it. Returning the key to his pocket, he turned to the Baltic, blank violet eyes studying fearful, cautious green.

"I left a shopping list with Estonia downstairs," the arctic nation said emotionlessly. "There should be enough money on the table."

Liet nodded shakily. "Da, Russia Zimavich."

The huge nation treated him to a soft smile, reaching up to caress his cheek. "Good job, Litva," he said quietly.

Liet flinched under the gentle touch, Russia's words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Russia didn't seem to notice, dropping his hand. "I will see you at dinner then, da?"

At Lithuania's stammered 'da', Russia returned to his office.

Liet stared uncomprehendingly at the spot Russia had been. Russia didn't do anything. Why? Liet had snuck into Poland's room right under his nose and got caught. How— how was he still uninjured?

And the answer hit him almost as hard as Russia's words.

The fight with Poland—Russia wanted to drive a wedge between them, to separate them somehow, and now he didn't have to. Liet had done Russia's work for him. The Baltic hadn't sided with Russia, but Poland never did anything half way: if Liet wasn't actively against Russia, then in Poland's mind, he was with him.

Lithuania was almost looking forward to dinner. For once, he wanted the vodka.

Until then, shopping. And hoping that he didn't come back to find Poland dead in his place.

---

Yeah, as I said, short. My apologies, but the next section made the chapter too long...

To give you an idea of all the awful situations Poland has been through over the years, consider this: the Polish national anthem is the _only_ nation anthem that starts with the words "Poland has not perished yet/so long as we still live". The current official lyrics mention Sweden and marching back from successful battles in Italy, but the old lyrics also mentioned Germany and Russia as enemies. And there's a lot of talk about taking things back at sword point. ^^;

Next chapter is forthcoming!

Read and review, comrades!


	12. Broken System

My readers will be happy to know that I've decided to throw my usual chapter word length guide out the window--I'm sick of trying to cut up scenes to fit approximately 3500 words. That being said, this chapter is longer than most, and definitely longer than the last one.

Warnings for violence in this chapter, more than we've seen before from Russia...

---

Lithuania trudged down the cobble street, grocery list in hand, and headed for the stores. The warming spring sunlight fell comfortably on his back, low grey clouds in the distance threatening rain. It was finally nice enough to wear only a light coat sans gloves and hat, but the melting snow had turned the ground to mud, still calling for winter boots. The warm weather (and by warm weather he meant low fiftys instead of below freezing) had people out in the streets enjoying the change, which had the unfortunate side effect of creating long lines at the store.

He really disliked the Soviet way of shopping: going around to each unmarked section of a store and mentally tallying up the prices of everything he needed, lining up at the kassa to exchange the correct number of rubles for a receipt, then lining up back at the sections to hand over the receipt in exchange for whatever is at that section. God forbid he forgot something or got the price wrong; he'd have to line up at the kassa all over again. He recalled American stores with envy.

The Party store was no better. Despite containing all the higher-end goods reserved for Party members (and Russia proclaimed the Soviet Union had no class system—ha!), the store used the same god-awful system, with the added bonus of having to flash one's documents in order to prove Party membership. Lithuania wasn't a Party member, but Russia obviously was, and he had spoken with the store owner shortly after Liet's 'return' so that the Baltic could retrieve groceries for him without incident. Definitely not legal, but Russia was Russia, so it didn't seem to matter. At least all the waiting in line gave him time to think…

His fight with Poland, he was sure they would make up eventually. Compared to some of the other spats they had gotten into over the years, this was negligible, really… Like when Poland had taken opportunity to try expanding his borders back in the 1920s, hoping to reclaim some of his past glory—which meant attacking and taking over Ukraine. Russia might have been distracted by his revolutions, but he predictably came to his sister's aid as soon as possible. He pushed Poland back, which wouldn't have been a problem for Liet personally, except that Russia simultaneously invaded him with the idea of marrying him to his younger sister Belarus. Liet had been amazed—married to Belarus?—but Russia's condition for the marriage was that the newly created nation of Litbel would be a part of the Soviet Union, and Lithuania wouldn't give up his independence for that, not even for her. So he got dragged into a war with Russia thanks to Poland.

He had done pretty well actually, but Russia _had _just gotten out of his revolution _and_ was still fighting Poland… They quickly came to a peace agreement: Liet had (mistakenly) thought that maybe Russia could be convinced that he and Belarus could stay independent if they got married, so he signed a treaty with Russia to provided (negligible) assistance against Poland. In return, Russia agreed to give him all of the Soviet-controlled territory Liet and Poland were currently arguing over. He'd never forget the look on Poland's face when he confronted him about that treaty… Thankfully, Poland still didn't want to go to war with his old partner, so when he managed to push Russia out of Lithuanian territory they had tried to come to a reasonable solution over the territory dispute. They argued for months. But then Poland suffered that coup and one of his generals seized Liet's capital. He was furious--how could Poland do that to him?!--but he didn't want another war, not right after the Great War, not after the fighting with Russia… Thus Poland got to keep his capital, but they didn't talk to each other for _years_. Not until 1938, when Austria moved in with Germany and Poland got really nervous—with good reasons, as it turned out—pounding on Liet's door and demanding that the Baltic be friends with him again or he was going to totally break the door down. So they had started talking again a little, but Liet was still annoyed about Vilinus—it was _his_ capital, god damn it.

He did get it back, but… After Russia invaded Poland and forced him to sign that mutual assistance treaty—the exchange: twenty thousand Russian troops within his borders for his capital, then under Russia's control. Liet knew it was a trap, but how could he refuse Russia? And the arctic nation had confided that the troops would wind up in Lithuanian territory no matter what; at least that way he got something out of it, not that it mattered in the long run…

"Receipt," urged an annoyed voice.

Liet snapped out of his discontented recollections and handed over the slip of paper. God, his relationship with Poland had really gotten messed up over the last few decades. Their lives—himself, Poland, Russia, his brothers—sounded like one of those stupid shows he had seen occasionally when he was living with America, what were they called? Soap operas?

The store assistant handed back the receipt and no flour. Liet frowned and inspected the numbers—"Damn it…" He'd gotten the price calculation wrong. Sighing, he turned back to the kassa.

The store owner spotted him. "Trouble, Grazhdanin Lorinaitis?"

"Got the price wrong, it's nothing," he answered apologetically, showing the man the receipt.

"Ah, this is no problem," the owner responded, waving him back towards to counter guarding the flour. "Katen'ka! Measure out three kilos of buckwheat, there's a good girl."

Liet muttered a thank you, grateful for the small kindness.

The manager shook his head, "It's no trouble! They really ought to put the flour in bags, da? Premeasured, none of this guessing prices and—"

"Hey, what's this skipping ahead? I thought we did away with all that preferred treatment in the Revolution."

A police officer, whom the store owner had waved Lithuania past to get his flour.

"Oh, just a small error on his receipt, hardly worth the trip back to the kassa—" the manager tried to brush off the man's comment.

"Yeah? And you sure this little thief wasn't just trying to slip a few extra kilos in there?" the officer demanded. Other shoppers glanced in their direction, curious.

Liet shifted nervously. The last thing he wanted was a tangle with the police.

The owner spoke up in his defense. "I assure you, Tovarishch Podpolkovnik Vasnetsov, that Grazhdanin Lorinaitis is certainly not a thi—"

"Grazhdanin?" the officer queried.

The store owner froze.

Lithuania swallowed thickly as the officer turned his gaze to him. "You think anybody can just waltz in here? This store is for Party members only, kid."

Liet mumbled a negative as the owner tried to explain, "He picks up groceries for his employer—"

"And why doesn't he come and get them himself?" Vasnetsov quipped before turning back to Liet. "Papers," he demanded.

Not good, not good… The Baltic nation fished out the little leather-bound booklet out of his pocket; the officer snatched it out of his hand and flipped it open disdainfully, eyes flicking across the page as he scrutinized the information. Liet tried not to fidget, hands clenched tightly to keep them still.

"Lithuanian!" Vasnetsov exclaimed. "I thought your name sounded odd… You trying to steal from us hard-working Russians, hm?"

"N- no…" Liet stuttered, eyes following his papers as the man pocketed them. He needed to carry those at all times…

"Well, Lorinaitis, I'm going to need you to come with me and answer some questions—"

"What?" he blurted, suddenly afraid.

The owner started, concerned. "Podpolkovnik, Tovarishch Braginski arranged for—"

"Stay out of this, unless you want a fine for ignoring proper store policy," the officer snapped.

"But—"

"Or a cell next to his as an accomplice for thievery."

The store owner clamped his mouth shut, shooting Liet a guilty glance.

"But I didn't steal anything," Lithuania tried desperately, taking a step back.

Vasnetsov grabbed him by the arm, squeezing hard enough to hurt. "Sneaking into the Party store and trying to get goods with an inaccurate receipt? Looks like stealing to me," he said, marching the unfortunate nation out on to the street.

"Please, this is just a misunderstanding, I swear," he gasped. He couldn't believe it; he was getting arrested! Because of Russia! "Please, call Tovarishch Braginski, he'll explain—"

"Shut your mouth before I do!" the man barked, shaking him slightly. A mother quickly pulled her child out of their path.

Lithuania bit his lip, close to tears as he stumbled alongside the officer. He was so close to screwed: the police weren't going to believe him, a non-Party member _and _a Lithuanian with no political sway whatsoever, especially over one of their own. His only chance was in Russia, if they honestly tried to contact him. There was a good chance they just wouldn't bother. People _disappeared_ when they ran afoul with the law, whether or not they had actually done anything wrong; no one saw or heard of them until years later, a letter of consolation from the government, we're sorry he got caught up in all that…

Vasnetsov dragged him through the doors of the station, the noise attracting the attention of a middle-aged officer at a desk.

"What've you got there, Vovka?"

Vasnetsov thrust him forward. "A little thief caught trying to steal for the Party store."

"Really now?" the other replied with a touch of interest, catching the tossed booklet.

"I didn't steal anything," Liet repeated.

Vasnetsov wrenched his arm up painfully, cutting off further protest.

"Lithuanian?" the other officer queried. "Why on earth would you steal from a Party store?"

"I didn't," the brunette insisted through clenched teeth.

"You're not going to help yourself by lying, kid," the man said sadly, copying down the information.

Liet groaned softly, there was no way he could win this. "Please," he said, practically begging. "Please, call Tovarishch Braginski, he'll tell you what happened, he—"

"Braginski?" the officer said sharply, putting down his pen. "Ivan Braginski?"

Oh thank god. "Yes, Ivan Braginski," Liet said quickly, a spark of relief leaking into his voice. "I work for him, he sent me to the store to pick up a few things, I wasn't trying to steal anything."

The officer considered him, then exchanged a glance with the Baltic's captor. "You didn't mention this," he said warily.

Vasnetsov shifted, suddenly unsure. "So what? What's that got to do with anything?" he huffed, loosening his grip on Liet's arm. The country remained silent, trying to determine exactly what the exchange meant for him. The older officer sounded like he might know Russia, please, let that be enough to get him out of here…

The older man leaned back in his chair, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and tapping one out. "I'll call him," he said finally, lighting his cigarette and taking a deep drag. "I hope for your sake, kid, that he knows who you are." He blew out a thin stream of smoke. "Nobody claims that connection lightly."

Did he _know_? Lithuania wondered suddenly. But why would Russia tell them?

"Who the hell's this Braginski guy?" Vasnetsov demanded.

His compatriot favored him with a serious stare. "He's got connections straight to the top."

Okay, so maybe he didn't know.

"To the top? You mean, to—"

"_All_ the way to the top," the officer emphasized.

Silence.

Well damn. They weren't afraid of Russia—to be fair, they didn't really know who he was—they were afraid of Russia's boss.

The man flicked a touch of ash onto the floor. "I'll call," he repeated, with more certainty than before. "In the meantime, lock him up in back—"

"What?!"

"—and we'll see what happens," the man finished sternly, giving Lithuania a look that read 'be grateful I'm sticking my neck out for you'. The Baltic glanced away.

"Yes sir," Vasnetsov nodded, and yanked Lithuania towards the back.

Vasnetsov put him in an empty cell, separate from the other criminals who shouted insults and curses or else pleaded their innocence. When the metal bars clanged shut, Lithuania resisted the overwhelming urge to curl his fingers around them. Instead, he went to the corner furthest from the others and sat down, hiding his head in his hands.

_Please Russia, please get me out of here…_

At least Russia was in his office today. Had he been out working, Lithuania would have been screwed. As it was, he thought glumly, Russia was bound to be unhappy with this turn of events. At least it wasn't Liet's fault; Russia bent the rules with that set up, and he got caught. Tch, who was he kidding? The likelihood that Russia wouldn't blame him was about as likely as Poland proclaiming his undying love for Germany.

Lithuania waited. As time stretched on with no sign of Russia, he began to get nervous, fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt, pacing the length of his cell, avoiding the bars that connected his tiny compartment with the one next to it. He knew Russia would come for him, he had to, what would he do otherwise? Leave Liet there? (His stomach flipped and he pushed the idea away.) But why hadn't Russia come yet? Was he trying to send another message, a warning? But what, aside from the usual 'I have power and _own_ you' message? He could just be busy. Too busy to come _get him out of jail_? His thoughts doubled back, twisting in upon themselves and leaving him restless. And nervous.

What if- What if Russia didn't come?

After what seemed like an infinite amount of time later, the door creaked open. Liet turned, hoping—

Following behind Vasnetsov was Russia, dressed in a modern officers' uniform instead of his old one, scarf still wrapped securely around his neck.

Lithuania practically flew to the door of his cell. "Tovarishch Braginski!" He came, thank goodness; Liet hadn't realized exactly how uncertain he had been until that moment.

Russia turned to Vasnetsov. "Da, I know him," he said neutrally.

An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of Liet's stomach.

"Why was he arrested?"

"He was attempting to procure goods from the Party store illegally, and subverting proper procedure as well," Vasnetsov answered immediately.

Russia hmmed thoughtfully. "I see. Well, open his cell please."

Confusion flashed across Vasnetsov's face. "But, sir, I must insist that he receive proper punishment for—"

"I assure you, his misdeeds will not go unpunished," Russia informed him cheerfully, his smile like ice.

Fear raced through Liet's veins; maybe he was better off in jail.

The officer hesitated, "Sir—"

"Tovarishch Podpolkovnik," Russia said neutrally, expression blank, humanity absent in his voice. Lithuania recognized that tone. "As _your_ superior officer and his employer, I take full responsibility for this man's actions. I will see that he is properly disciplined for his transgression. You have my word." The darkness passed and he smiled once more. "Now please, open his cell."

"Y- Yes, sir," Vasnetsov snapped a sharp salute and fumbled with the keys, thoroughly unnerved. The door swung open and Lithuania stepped out into the narrow hall, slightly closer to Russia than the officer (even though one was undoubtedly safer than the other). He opened his mouth to explain but Russia killed his words with a swift gesture, gaze still resting on Vasnetsov.

"Thank you, tovarishch. I'm sorry to have troubled you with all this unpleasantness," he apologized, moving to leave. Liet followed, nearly crashing into the taller man when he paused at the door, turning partially back to the policeman.

"Lorinaitis and my other two assistants will continue to run errands for me when deemed necessary. I hope this won't be a problem?"

Vasnetsov shook his head wordlessly.

Russia grinned. "I'm glad."

The huge nation briefly thanked the older officer, who apologized for his partner's rash behavior. Russia assured him that it was no trouble, don't be too hard on the boy, he was only trying to do his job and protect the people, if only everyone were as vigilant as he. Then he bid the man good day and left, Lithuania a silent shadow behind him.

The minute they reached the street—the promised rain had arrived as a light drizzle, was it already evening? How long had he been in there?—Lithuania tried again, "Ivan Zimavich, I—"

"Not now, Toris," Russia said curtly, a polite 'shut up, Litva'.

Lithuania heard the restraint his in voice and remained silent, instead focusing on keeping up with the taller nation's long strides. They went straight home, foregoing the store where the groceries had been abandoned; Liet would bet that he'd have to go get them tomorrow. Unless none of the items on the list were actually needed and the whole trip was merely a fabrication to get him out of the house. To think that he might have been arrested for nothing…

Russia's grip on his temper broke the moment they got inside the house.

"How dare you embarrass me like that!" he shouted, whirling on the smaller nation, towering over him.

Lithuania cowered, backing into the corner. "I'm sorry! I wasn't trying to embarrass you!" he said frantically, hands raised to shield, to hide behind.

"You couldn't be bothered to fix the receipt and got arrested! Of all the stupid things!"

"H-He was just trying to help," Liet stuttered.

"You should have refused!"

"I'm sorry!"

Russia grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pinned him against the wall. "I missed a call from my _boss_ because I was talking with the police!" he hissed angrily. "Do you have any _idea_—"

Liet smelled the vodka on his breath, saw the red rimming his eyes—had Russia been _crying?_ "I'm sorry, Russia Zimavich," he whispered fearfully. "I swear, it won't happen again."

The huge nation released him and stepped back, taking a deep breath. "I hope not, Litva," he said dispassionately. He looked exhausted. "I hope not. For your sake."

Lithuania shivered.

Russia went upstairs, and Liet didn't move from the corner until he heard the office door shut. His heart was pounding, and it was only partially from terror.

How was this his fault? _Russia_ was the one who set up the agreement with the store owner. He should have realized that it would only work for so long before one of his own citizens called foul. Hell, he should be proud his methods were taking so well! But of course it wasn't Russia's fault. It was never Russia's fault…

Lithuania waited until he was sufficiently calmed, relatively speaking, then went to see what had become of dinner in his absence.

There was nothing he could do about Russia.

--

Russia came down to dinner on time, smiling and pleasant as if nothing had happened. It made the Baltics nervous; they ate in silence, listening intently as Russia happily reported on the state of the economy, both his and the Baltics'. Liet stared at his plate and refused to look at Russia when the huge nation said that all Lithuanian banks and land had been nationalized, farms collectivized, and the lita officially removed from circulation. When he commented on how things were going so well, that Lithuanian people were now much better off than before, Liet found his earlier anger creeping back over him, daring him to point out that Russia had also banned all organizations except the Communist Party and its youth group, that there was a massive shortage of goods thanks to the adoption of Soviet practices, that the standard of living had dropped through the floor and his people were miserable…

But it was getting harder and harder to hold his tongue as Russia continued to ply him with vodka throughout dinner, toasting to each Soviet success. Liet knew that this was Russia's revenge, his punishment for getting arrested and causing the arctic nation to miss a call from his terrifying boss. By the time the meal ended, Lithuania recognized in a fuzzy sort of way that he was completely and utterly drunk.

"Estonia, Latvia, you can take care of the dishes, da?" Russia commanded in question as they began clearing plates. "I want to have a word with Litva."

Oh yes, he was damned. Liet rose to his feet and waved away his brothers' anxious looks, "'s fine," he said, slurring the words. Damn it. This was so bad. He stepped away from his seat and lost balance; Russia steadied him, hand on his shoulder.

"Come with me, Litva," Russia said gently, grabbing the half-finished bottle off the table and steering the swaying Baltic into the living room.

Liet was deposited on the sofa; he flopped down with little resistance, letting his head hang forward as the world spun threatening. He felt Russia's weight settle down next to him, drape an arm over his shoulders and tug him close. The cold country set two shot glasses on the table and filled them one-handed, the other hand lightly petting his hair; Liet watched mutely, waiting for the blow to fall.

Russia offered him a glass and he took it. "To you, Litva, for coming to your senses," he declared, clinking their glasses together before knocking the vodka back smoothly. Liet did the same and grimaced as the added warmth slipped into his stomach.

"Comin' t' my senses 'bout what?" the Baltic murmured. Coming to his senses, ha—not when he was this smashed…

"About Poland," Russia replied, plucking the glass from his fingers and returning both to the table. He didn't refill them, thank god.

A small sound died in his throat and he swallowed. "What do you _want,_ Russia?" Liet muttered hopelessly. The arctic nation had already taken over, completely changed his government, destroyed his economy, made Russian the de facto language of politics and public life, annihilated his foreign relations, banned religion, hell, banned everything that wasn't communist--what more could he possibly want?

Russia's quiet chuckle reverberated through the smaller nation's body. "You know what I am wanting," he whispered in the Liet's ear, warm vodka-scented breath ghosting down the Baltic's neck.

He shuddered, hair standing on end, breathing shaky as his eyes fluttered shut; a knot twisted in his already nauseous gut.

"All nations will become one with Russia, Litva," the huge nation continued softly, skillfully conveying a double threat. "Some just sooner than others."

"You really believe that?" Liet asked quietly, staring at his lap. "You think you're gunna get everyone? Everyone? Eastern Europe; yeah okay, maybe, but Germany? France, England? You're going to get all of them too? China, Japan—everyone?"

"All of them, Litva, I will free all of th—"

"Wha' about America?" Lithuania asked, barely noticing Russia's abrupt stillness. He thought of the confident Yankee, young and exuberant, always hoping for the best, perhaps naively so, willing to work hard to create his dreams and freedoms. "Y' can't get America, it won't work," he said, shaking his head once, heedless of how the room spun when he did so. "America, he's not— He won't fall for all of this." He gestured vaguely at the living room. "For the, the lies and propaganda. His people have no reason to believe you, they won't—"

"They will, Litva," Russia interrupted calmly. "I will offer them ultimate freedom—"

"But it's not," Liet mumbled. "And America's economy was built on capitalism—"

"America's economy was built on slavery," Russia countered.

"Fine, slavery," Lithuania conceded. "But so was yours. So were most of ours—"

"Serfdom was not slavery—"

"Bullshit," Liet slurred the useful American phrase as he pulled away from the huge nation. Some part of his mind realized that he needed to stop talking, now. "What, serfdom's slavery when you're condemning the bourgeois but not when it could make you similar to America? It doesn't work that way—"

"This conversation is done, Litva," Russia stated firmly, his eyes dark.

Lithuania continued, "You've got to realize that your people don't believe any of this shit. I refuse to believe your people are all idiots—"

The backhand clipped him hard across the mouth, eliciting a shocked gasp from the Baltic. Russia gazed at him expressionlessly as he wiped a trembling hand across his mouth and saw blood. Liet realized that he had missed all of the warning signs. His breath hitched, suddenly shallow; his eyes found a spot on the sofa and stayed there.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit. _He _knew_ Russia was out to punish him, he had thought it was just getting him drunk to the point of being sick, but of course not! Why stop there when Russia could get him to denounce Soviet policy?

Russia stood. "Get up, Litva," he ordered.

He tried, and found his legs wouldn't support him, half-collapsing onto the coffee table.

Russia made no move to help him, cool eyes tracking his labored attempt to stand. He managed to climb to his feet, swayed slightly, but remained upright. He was vaguely aware of Estonia and Latvia peeking fearfully out from the kitchen behind him.

"Litva, I am disappointed in you," Russia started. "I had thought that with your rejection of Poland's futile rebellion you had signaled your willingness to move forward towards a new and better world."

_How is he that eloquent when he's drunk?_ Liet thought bitterly.

"But you disregard your people's achievements—"

When did he say that?

"—and denounce our collective ability to succeed. This sort of doubt corrodes the strength of the people and allows the evils of capitalism to sneak in through the cracks, killing freedom and snaring people in nets of debt and servitude."

_Undermining the system, he's accusing me of causing dissent!_ Normally such a charge would land a person in Siberia— Russia wouldn't, would he?

The huge nation looked him dead in the eye, expression hardened. "I cannot allow this to happen."

_Please don't send me to Siberia. Please._

"Follow me," Russia commanded, turning and heading towards the doorway.

Liet got two steps, staggered, and crashed to the floor. Damn it, way too much to drink. He couldn't have run if he wanted to.

A strong grip on his upper arm, tight enough to hurt—between the police officer and now, he was going to have a bruise tomorrow—and Russia roughly hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him to the stairs. It was all Liet could do to keep his feet under him. He tripped up the stairs; Russia jerked him up two more steps, cracking his knees into the hard wood before Liet could partially regain balance. Then down the hall, past Liet's room; were they going to Russia's office again? But the huge nation stopped short and threw open the door to—

Terror crashed over him; he dug in his heels, tried to wrench himself out of Russia's grasp, "No, Russia, please—"

Russia ignored him and shoved the protesting country into his room.

Liet tripped, fell, and forced himself back onto his feet through sheer force of will, whirling to face Russia, heart thundering in his ears.

The huge nation shut the door and locked it behind him, eyes never once leaving the trembling Baltic.

Lithuania couldn't get his breathing to even out, quick, shallow, panicked. "R- Ru- Russia Zimavich…" The plea came out a strangled whisper.

The arctic nation advanced slowly, ignoring the light switch in favor of keeping the room shadowed; Liet remained frozen to the spot. _Wolf and rabbit__._

Russia stopped less than an arm's length away, destroying any sense of personal space. "Take off your shirt," he said neutrally.

Lithuania lurched back, stuttering, "N- No, _please_, Russia—"

The man's massive hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, twisting it; Liet gasped in pain, tears springing to his eyes as he sank to the floor in a vain attempt to lessen the hurt.

Russia held his wrist just before the breaking point, knowing the exact level of pressure he needed to maintain. "Take it _off_, Litva," he growled, eyes a blank shade of lavender. "Or I will."

He released him and stepped back. Liet hesitated, holding his wrist to his chest protectively, trying to think of a way out of this disaster, there had to be a way—

Russia suddenly crouched down in front of him, reaching for the buttons on his shirt-

"No!" Liet stopped him frantically, cringing at the look the other nation gave him. "I'll— I'll do it, please..."

Russia didn't respond, just grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet, waiting.

Blinking back tears, Lithuania unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off, the cool air giving him goose bumps. When Russia held out his hand, Liet handed over the shirt with no complaint.

Russia walked past—Liet shivered as the tail of his coat flicked against his leg—and the Baltic turned to follow his movements, unwilling to let him out of his sight; Russia tossed the shirt on his bed and went the closet, rummaging around for a moment before straightening up and shutting the door—

A whimper escaped Lithuania at the sight of the riding crop. _No, no… _But he couldn't run, he could barely walk in a straight line and Russia would chase him down and then it would be worse and good god, Russia had never signed the Geneva Convention, had he? He hadn't sworn off torture—!

"Hands on the wall," Russia said emotionlessly.

Liet couldn't breath, fear choking him. "Ru- Russia- "

"Hands on the wall!" he snarled, shoving the brunette.

Lithuania managed to catch himself, hands flat on the wall, and stood there trembling. "I'm sorry, Russia, I'm sorry," he sobbed, hanging his head, wide green eyes dancing frantically over the floorboards as teardrops fell like exploding shells across the woodwork. "I'm sorry..."

"No," he heard the huge nation whisper softly behind him. "Not yet."

The first lash fell like fire across his shoulder blades and he bit back a cry. The second strike cut down his back and he couldn't stop the gasp. The third landed diagonally and a yelp escaped him. Fourth, he shrieked in agony. Fifth, he screamed. Sixth, he begged, pleas and apologies and promises of better behavior spilling out of him in a torrent of anguish; Russia continued on oblivious, raining blow after blow on his shoulders and back, deaf to everything.

-

Lithuania didn't know how much time passed. Gradually he became aware of the solid floor beneath him, he was sitting, and that it had stopped. Russia, he realized numbly, was dabbing something against his back, talking to him gently, kindly.

"—I had to; you have to learn. It's for your own good, Litva; I only do this because I care about you. I want the best for you, Litva, you and all my countries. If this means that you must be punished for your mistakes then so be it, but I only do it because I love you. I wouldn't waste my time if I didn't—"

Lithuania just sat there dumbly, noting the bowl of bloody water that Russia dipped a cloth into occasionally. He offered no protest when the huge nation dressed his wounds, nor when he was gingerly picked up and carried over a shoulder to the bed, laid out next to the wall on his stomach. Russia left and Liet drifted, thoughts sluggish, eyes closed; he stirred briefly when someone climbed into the bed next to him, Russia he assumed dully, and he knew he ought to try and get away, but his body didn't respond. He felt the covers carefully pulled up, and the other person shifted a little, then was still. Liet listened as breathing evened out into peaceful slumber.

The darkness that had been edging in around the corners of his mind pulled him under.

---

Not much to say about this chapter... Lithuania's referring to a lot of different but interconnected historical events in the first half of his chapter, namely the Polish-Soviet War and the related fallout from that. And yes, the Soviet Union did originally plan on merging Lithuania and Belarus into a single country--I'm betting that's the time when Belarus broke Liet's arm. ^^;

Liet has scars in Hetalia canon; they had to come from somewhere, and it's _heavily _implied that they're courtesy of Russia. Note, in Russia's "I hurt you because I love you" nonsense, he never once apologies.

Vocab:

kassa- payment desk, cash register

Grazhdanin- citizen (the opposite term of address from toravishch), used with non-Party members

Podpolkovnik- lieutenant colonel

Next chapter's half written, hopefully will be posted sometime this coming week.

Read and reviewing, comrades!


	13. Mayday

Next chapter, up and ready! I got my final paper topic for my Eastern European literature course: I'm writing about the idea of victimhood/martyrdom as the Polish national identity! XD Lots of angst there, plenty of discussion about Polish-Russian relations over the years...

---

Lithuania stumbled blindly through the smoke, the stench of burning wood and worse invading every sense. He tripped, stumbling over a body riddled with arrows. Somewhere through the darkness he heard a horse thunder by; there was a tremendous crash as the remains of a burning house collapsed, throwing millions of sparks skyward in a vicious mockery of the stars hidden by slaughter.

"Poland!" Liet shouted, inhaled smoke and gagged. How did he always lose them? "Estonia! La-" A burning cough, his eyes watering as he tried to make out objects through the concealing smoke, "Latvia! Where are you?"

A scream pierced the gloom, a keening unholy wail and Liet flinched. But it meant someone was alive. He altered his course towards the sound, passing through the thickest part of the smoke; near the edge of the village, the houses farther spaced out—

Kneeling among the unmoving forms of men, women, even children, was a little boy, his peasant's clothing singed and blood-stained; he rocked back and forth, smearing his face with ash as he howled his grief to the uncaring night.

Before he could say anything, a huge figure emerged from the smoke, also drawn by the child's cries: a man on horseback, decked out in a strange garb Lithuania didn't recognize, a short bow sheathed on the saddle, a sword at hand—was he from the east?

The boy's head jerked up at the horseman's approach. Liet saw his young face contort in fury; he grabbed for something next to him and scrambled up, a too-heavy sword clutched in one hand, running for the warrior—

"No!" Lithuania yelled, but he was too far to stop the blade from cutting down in a smooth arc, sinking into the boy's shoulder; the child crumpled to the ground, motionless. Liet watched aghast as the horseman flicked the blood off shining steel and directed his horse around the boy's unmoving body, riding off in search of any remaining survivors.

Liet ran up to the child, hitting his knees in the dirt next to him, rolling him over to see—

Lithuania bit back a startled oath.

The boy's violet eyes were glazed over, gazing vacantly upwards, unseeing. Blood poured from the wound in his shoulder that cleaved straight through his collarbone into the top ribs; yet even as the Baltic watched, bone and muscle knit itself back together, the worst damage rapidly healing until—

The child blinked, focus returning to his eyes, which locked with Liet's own immediately. He lurched forward, lunging for Liet's waist, his _own_ dagger, wait he wasn't—!

The blade slammed into his chest up to the hilt. Liet gasped, jerking forward when the dagger was wrenched out again; one hand found the ground, supported his weight, it wasn't enough—he collapsed.

The boy stood over him, breathing ragged, tears mingling with the ash on his cheeks, eyes blazing with hatred; then the look passed, morphing into agony as he moaned, a strangled cry of pure anguish and simple incomprehension—_why is this happening to me? _He turned and fled through the carnage…

--

Lithuania came around slowly the next morning. His back _ached_ beyond all reason; he grimaced as pain shot through him at the slightest moment, sighing as it retreated a little.

Frost and crisp just-before-snow, deep winter—

Russia! His eyes snapped opened.

The room was empty except for him, the communist country nowhere to be seen. A sigh of relief, and he glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 9:30. Startled, he tried to push himself up and choked back a cry, pain flaring at the attempted movement.

Well, looks like he wasn't going anywhere. He closed his eyes and tried to relax—difficult, given where he was—but the exhaustion still clinging to him like a mantle let him doze off.

A quiet knock roused him around noon. Blinking sleep from his eyes, Lithuania tested movement and found he could manage a little, but quickly decided against walking. "Come in," he called.

The door opened to reveal Russia, carrying a plate of food.

Liet jerked and bit back a curse as pain spiked. Damn it. He watched Russia warily as the nation approached, looking faintly remorseful.

"I brought you lunch," he stated obviously, placing the plate on the side table. "Can you get up?"

"No," Lithuania whispered, following the man's movements from the corner of his eyes. _I'm completely helpless. I can't even run away_.

"Can you sit up?"

Liet did so, slowly, gritting his teeth with the effort; he seated himself facing towards Russia, who offered him the plate of stroganoff.

"You'll probably be fine by nightfall," Russia nodded with certainty. "Don't worry about anything; your brothers can handle the house and such."

The Baltic nodded, eating his food in silence. Russia stood there a moment longer, then went to the window and pulled aside the curtains. Liet winced at the light, a headache suddenly making itself known—he hadn't noticed it with his back the way it was. Oh, he had a hangover, didn't he? Great…

The huge nation muttered something about being back later to check on him and left, closing the door behind him.

Russia was right; by sunset he could make his way around the room, his back stiff but willing. This was how a country was _supposed _to heal, quickly, not over the course of a week. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he haltingly made his way past; he paused, debating, then angled himself to see his back.

_Hell_. The bandages were soaked with the rust-red of dried blood, all across his shoulders and upper back, individual lines becoming more distinct as they reached down toward his waist. Russia must have whipped him raw…

He donned a dark button-up (in case the wounds reopened, he didn't want to ruin a shirt and alarm his brothers) and joined everyone, minus Poland, downstairs for dinner, where he studiously ignored the concerned and distressed looks his brothers were giving him in favor of pretending that everything was fine. Russia ruined that when he forbid him from washing dishes, leading him back upstairs; for one horrifying moment Liet thought the man was going to beat him again, but instead Russia escorted him to the bathroom where he tenderly washed and redressed the injuries, before suggesting that he go to bed early. Also, the huge nation added as Liet mumbled an ironic thank you, Poland's solitary confinement would be over tomorrow.

Lithuania was struck with the absurd idea that the announcement was the closest Russia could get to an apology.

--

Liet felt much better the next day, his back sore as if he had done heavy lifting rather than suffered a whipping two days before. Going to the kitchen to start breakfast, he noted that Russia was out of the house already, and decided to make one of his dishes. Because he wanted eggs, he reasoned; not, as a part of him thought with dark glee, to secretly spite him.

He didn't realize anyone else was in the room with him until he heard a quiet, "How badly did he hurt you?"

He turned quickly, spatula held at the ready even as he realized who it was. Poland no longer looked like a battered corpse, but he hadn't yet progressed past 'starving war refugee'; at least his wrist was healed and there were no sign of the bruises that had decorated his face only a few days prior. He was still far too thin though, and the bags under his eyes told Liet how exhausted he was.

"I'm better now," he answered, avoiding the question entirely.

Poland wasn't going to let it go that easily. "I could hear you screaming," he said softly. "Begging for him to stop…"

"It's fine," Liet said quickly, turning to hide his shudder. He poked at the sizzling eggs. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked, a little too loudly to be normal. "Since it's your first day back out, I'll make you whatever you'd like."

This seemed to placate the blond, who let the matter drop in favor of demanding rainbow-colored pancakes in the shape of ponies. When Estonia and Latvia came downstairs, Liet manage to ward off their questions about his health with the visually-disturbing meal.

"Is this safe to eat?" Latvia wondered aloud.

"America eats brightly colored food all the time," Lithuania said by way of explanation. Next to Latvia, Estonia frowned dubiously at his pancakes before beheading one of the pony-shapes.

"But America's crazy…" the shortest country mumbled.

"Hey, if you don't want your pony-cakes, I will totally eat them for you," Poland announced, slathering his own with black currant jam. Latvia ate his without further comment.

They washed up after breakfast and dispersed to do chores, Poland following Liet around like an exuberant puppy, actually offering to dust while the other swept. The Baltic was oddly flattered that Poland would try to help him out when he wasn't feeling well, but the warmth was extinguished the moment Estonia and Latvia went to clean upstairs and Poland rounded on him, demanding, "Let me see what he did to you."

Lithuania smiled nervously. "Poland, I'm not—"

"Show me, Liet!" the blond repeated, stomping over to him and making a grab at the hem of his shirt.

Lithuania dodged, wincing. "No, you don't need to see!"

Poland huffed. "Why, didn't he leave a mark?"

Confused, the Baltic opened his mouth to reply, realized what his friend was implying, nearly choked, and exclaimed angrily, "For the last time, I'm not sleeping with Russia!"

"But you won't show—"

"He whipped me, okay?!" Liet shouted. "With a riding crop! It's embarrassing! For god sake, Poland, we're _older_ than he is! And still, this sort of thing just _happens_!"

"Sorry," Poland muttered, taken aback. "I just, I thought that—"

"Russia hasn't touched me, okay?" Liet interrupted, tired of hearing the same thing. "Yes, he— kisses my hair and gets way too close, but he hasn't— nothing's happened."

"'kay," the blond said.

"Don't sulk," the Baltic snapped, scowling. "I know you're worried for me, but, just let it alone, okay?" _Worry about yourself_, he added mentally.

Poland nodded and they went back to cleaning, an uneasy silence between them that persisted throughout the remained of the day. Lithuania couldn't understand it; why was Poland so hung up on that? It really wasn't any of his business... Besides, if anything _had_ happened, what made him think that he'd want to talk about it?

Things fell back into their old patterns. Poland didn't bring up Russia's uncomfortable attentions to Liet again, and the days passed slowly, relatively uneventful. Lithuania's back healed (although scars remained, an angry reminder of the event), Poland didn't provoke the huge nation into a blinding rage, Latvia made idiotic comments and didn't seem to realize, and they all kept out of Russia's way when he was home. There was a crackling tension to the man that the Baltics hadn't seen before; no one what exactly what was causing it, and no one was willing to find out. Lithuania personally suspected that it had something to do with Germany and the war to the west, but topics like that were given a wide berth when Russia was in ear-shot. Still, the anxiety was contagious; they got into minor spats with each other over stupid things: who washed dishes, who rubbed their knuckles raw with laundry chemicals, who got to make the cross-city trip that would keep them out of the house for most of the day. This cumulated with Poland making an off-handed comment about how communism sucked and landing himself back in solitary confinement for three days, thankfully without the prerequisite beating, and Liet was forbidden to have any contact with him.

And two days into Poland's confinement Lithuania woke up with a small heart attack as Russia did his best to break his door down.

"Litva, get up!" BANG BANG BANG

"Da, I'm awake, I'm awake!" The terrified Baltic nation stumbled out of bed, his mind trying to catch up to his body; he got tangled up the sheets and fell heavily onto the floor with a yelp of pain.

The door slammed open and bounced violently off the wall. "Litva, get dressed and get downstairs!" Russia ordered.

"Da, Russia Zimavich!" Liet said quickly, scrambling to his feet. What was going on?

"Wear your new uniform. Be down in the kitchen in five minutes," Russia elaborated vaguely as Lithuania went for the closet.

"Da, Russia Zimavich," Liet responded, dipping his head in Russia's direction, noting the huge nation's own uniform, an officer's formal attire, medals and ribbons displayed proudly across his chest, hat tucked under his arm. Russia gave a short nod and left to rouse the others.

Lithuania pulled out his new uniform: it looked nearly identical to his old one save for the important fact that now it identified him as a member of the 'Baltic Special Military District' to other soldiers, and as 'belonging to Russia' to other countries… He sighed, then shut the door and dressed quickly. Down the hall he heard the same treatment being applied to Estonia's door. What could Russia want now? It was barely eight in the morning; they hadn't even made breakfast yet. Why was Russia in his modern officer's uniform rather than his old Great War outfit? Perhaps more concerning, why did Russia want _him_ in his new uniform?

"Latvia, get out of bed, now! It's May Day, I will not be late!"

Ah, that's right. It was May first, wasn't it? International Workers' Day, the biggest state holiday in the Soviet Union. He finished buttoning up the long overcoat as he walked to the bathroom, dragging a comb through his hair and splashing water on his face. Estonia stepped in next to him, muttering good morning as he proceeded to wash up as well, glasses resting on the side of the sink.

Liet murmured a response as he patted his face dry with a towel, glancing worriedly toward the hall upon hearing Latvia wail, "Ahh, Russia Zimavich, stop, I'm sorry, put me down!"

"Didn't get out of bed fast enough, I think," Estonia mumbled, rubbing sleep and water from his eyes.

Liet offered him the towel. "Was he drinking last night?"

"Probably," the brother answered, face hidden by the cloth. "You saw him at dinner."

He had. Latvia finished half a bottle by himself. "At this rate he'll be as bad as Russia," he said sadly.

"No one's as bad as Russia," Estonia muttered darkly, hanging up the towel.

Liet almost smiled. "See you downstairs."

"Da."

They both winced.

Russia left Latvia's room just as Liet started down the steps. "Litva! Make sandwiches, four of them!" he called, catching sight of him.

"Da!" Four sandwiches, which meant that someone wasn't eating. Liet hoped it was Russia. Estonia joined him in the kitchen a minute later and helped prepare their make-shift breakfast. Latvia entered shortly after, sniffing back tears, Russia following behind him. Lithuania stiffened instinctually at the sight of the bayoneted rifle slung over the taller nation's shoulder.

"Baltics, come here," he ordered.

Lithuania and Estonia immediately abandoned the counter, lining up next to Latvia, _like soldiers before a commanding officer_, Liet realized gloomily. Well, they were all in uniform. Russia waited until he had their full attention.

"Today is May Day. I will be marching in the parade, but I expect all of you to attend." The huge nation paused, as if daring them to object, before continuing, "We will meet in the Kremlin after the parade, at the Armory, for afternoon tea. Be there by three o'clock… I have this, for you," he said somewhat distractedly as he pulled a couple of bills from his pocket and divided it among them. "For treats and such."

"Spasiba," they said collectively, trying to hide their amazement as they tucked the rubles away.

"Puzhalista," he replied automatically, putting on his military cap. "I need to go, the parade starts at nine, I will see you later, da?"

He smiled at them, excitement and anticipation lighting up his childlike eyes, then turned sharply on his heel and strode out. They heard him singing as the door swung shut.

"We should stay home," Latvia pouted sullenly, his sniffles subsiding.

"Not even an option," Estonia said briskly, moving to finish the sandwiches.

Liet had to agree. If they didn't go, Russia would be furious. He had no idea how the arctic nation would find out that they hadn't attended, but he had no doubt that Russia would, somehow.

"Why don't you two start eating?" Estonia suggested, placing two plates on the table. "I'll bring Poland his and then we can—"

"Oh, Russia didn't unlock his door," Lithuania groaned. How were they going to get him food?

Estonia flushed, suddenly guilty.

Liet blinked, realizing, "You have a key, don't you?"

The brother shifted nervously. "Russia couldn't be bothered to unlock the door each time," he explained, mumbling.

"How long have you had it?"

"Maybe three weeks…"

"Three— Why didn't you tell me?!"

"You didn't- need to know…"

"I didn't need to know?" Lithuania repeated in disbelief. "Did you think that I would take the key to sneak in? Estonia, I picked the lock and went anyways—the key would've just made it easier!"

"So when Russia caught you he'd punish me as well?" the taller Baltic shot back. He drew himself up, squared his shoulders. "You look after your people, Lithuania, and I'll look after mine."

Liet held his tongue as Estonia collected Poland's breakfast. There was nothing he could say to that.

_Way to be a hypocrite, Lietuva…_

"C- Could I at least bring him breakfast?" he asked with a touch of desperation.

"No."

"I'd give the key back," Liet said indignantly.

Estonia looked him straight in the eye. "I know," he replied evenly, and left.

Lithuania and Latvia ate their sandwiches in silence, which was broken a few moments later by the sound of glass shattering, followed by a loud: "Fuck _you_, Estonia! What makes you think I'd even want to _go _to your stupid, bullshit communist festival! Have fun fucking cheering for Russia! As he figures out the next way to totally screw us over!"

The door slammed shut.

Estonia returned a moment later, mouth pressed into a thin line. Liet didn't say anything.

They cleared the table and got ready, donned boots and coats and locked the house behind them. They made their way towards the center of the city, following the trickle of people that gradually merged into a huge flood as seemingly everyone turned out for the event. The tide carried them along to the Red Square, where the main festivities would take place; thousands upon thousands of people crammed into the area, pressing up close against the barrier that separated them from the parade route. Liet led them to the area directly across from the Mausoleum, correctly guessing that it would be the center of the performance. A flight of bombers roared overhead and the Baltics instinctively ducked, memories of the last war springing fresh in their minds, but it was only the Soviet fighter planes making passes over the city, to the cheers of the crowd around them. Squirming their way through the mass of bodies, Latvia suddenly tugged on Liet's sleeve, asking, "Toris, can I?" pointing off to the side where a crowd of people gathered around a food stall.

"It's your money," he responded, so they queued there behind a mother with four excitable children of various ages of young, all chatting animatedly with each other. Festivals, the Baltic reflected, were both a wonderful and terrible chance to see things as they were. Everyone appeared cheerful and upbeat; at first glance a person would never suspect that they were living in a highly oppressive society on the brink of war. But a closer examination immediately pierced the façade, revealed the uneasy currents lurking in the crowd; Liet could see it in the way people gave uniforms a wide berth, in the furtive glances cast towards anyone that stood out, in the way they gossiped, low and under their breath, about anything that could potentially be deemed 'inappropriate' or not in line with proper Soviet sentiments…

Latvia paid for his paper cone full of steaming ponchiki, fresh out of the oil, and as they pushed their way back to the barriers, a hush fell over the crowd, all heads turning to gaze up at the Mausoleum. The Baltics too all craned their necks, trying to see past the crowd and the legions of soldiers standing at attention in the square. They quickly realized what everyone was staring at: a pair of mounted officers had come galloping up the way, both man and horses decked out in all their military finery, stopping before the mausoleum to salute a group of men that had assembled there. Liet could make out the People Commissar of Defense, Marshal Semyon Timoshenko, standing front and center at a microphone—Russia's boss, he noted with some surprise, wasn't there.

A trumpet fanfare from the army's band, and then Timoshenko began his speech:

"Comrades!" his voice ringing out above the crowd, from loudspeakers positioned on telephone poles. "A dark shadow has fallen upon the Motherland from a place where once we saw only light: the West! Thence comes the enemy, whose light is cast by the burning fires of greed. Thence comes the enemy, which moves against our beloved land with the sole desire of destroying the freedom of our people, won through the price of our blood. But we won't be placed under anyone's heel, comrades! We won't allow them to do it!"

The crowd around them burst into loud approval, confirmation, a brutal denial of the western murders, Tovarishch Stalin! Timoshenko beckoned for quiet, and silence descended again.

"The homeland is threatened. Our livelihood is in danger! But our freedom, which infuriates our enemies, only we can defend!"

Thunderous applause, thousands of tiny Soviet flags waved above the mass like specks of blood, Long live Tovarishch Stalin! Long live Stalin! Some people burst into song, but the marshal's abrupt gesture cut short the festivities.

"Under the leadership of Tovarishch Stalin, we are ready to defend our country again, at all costs, and to the last man. Are we ready?"

The soldiers arrayed before the Mausoleum, roar a deafening affirmative, echoed by the civilians. Lithuania spared a frightened glance at Estonia, who couldn't drag his eyes away from the marshal, face pale. _Good god, Russia's got his whole country brainwashed!_

"But you are mistaken if you believe that everyone thinks as you do. Remnants of the past may still be seen among us, in those who have not embraced the new order, and who would gladly pass judgment upon our happy state. Who are they, you wonder?"

A pause, dead silence.

"All those, comrades, who avoid their work in the fields and factories, and listen to radio London and Berlin at night!" Timoshenko stabbed the air violently at the last word; the Baltics could feel the crowd's sudden unease, tension and bewilderment evident as they shifted, murmuring to each other in low tones.

"The imperialist policies of the West have positioned its war machinery on our borders to destroy the fruits of our people's struggle." Timoshenko suddenly grinned and shouted loudly, "But it shall not be! Down with Western imperialism and its servants! Long live Tovarishch Stalin! Long live the Motherland!"

Latvia gripped Liet's arm in terror as the crowd cheered, shouting and whistling its approval, the army band striking up a well-loved patriotic tune as spontaneous circle dances broke out among the populace. But Timoshenko remained by the microphone, speech still uncompleted, and the crowd settled down after a few moments, waiting.

"I have told you about their servants, comrades," the marshal continued, his words somber. "They are among us, comrades. They sit at your dinner table. They coil around your children like serpents and plot our downfall. For that reason, for the cause of public security, it is the duty of all who carry the Motherland in their hearts and the work of Tovarishch Lenin and Tovarishch Stalin in their heads to report anything they know about any suspicious case, any suspicious person, for no one is safe anymore, dear comrades. No one!"

Lithuania swallowed thickly. Suddenly, surrounded by thousands of Soviet citizens in the heart of the Russian capital, he felt very, very unsafe. From the way his brothers edged closer to him, he suspected they felt the same way.

"But is vigilance enough? Is it enough to just say it? Is it enough to just pledge oneself and stop there? I tell you, absolutely not! The Motherland demands actions! Actions, comrades! Let every able-bodied man report to the people's authority for placement. Let the work schedule on the fields and in the factories be increased! And let numerous other measure be undertaken, for that is the only way to defend the Motherland's fortunes. For that is the only way to build the future of our children. And so, comrades, long live Tovarishch Stalin!"

The army howled its support in a deep echoing call; the band struck up the national anthem as the crowd cheered, people toasting loudly, dancing, singing. The divisions of the army that had been standing before the Mausoleum began their march through the square, officers saluting, soldiers lowering their rifles as they passed the marshal and his attendants. Lithuania watched rank upon rank of the army pass by—there were so many of them! Hundreds of thousands of soldiers… Liet wondered how Russia was feeling, with so many of his citizens caught up in the rush of national pride. He strained his eyes for a sight of the tall nation, but quickly realized the impossibility of it; Russia was just one of thousands, just another one of his soldiers, the white scarf removed to complete the show of solidarity. And it was show, a show of strength and honor. Soldiers, army trucks, heavy artillery paraded past, the new BT-7 tank roaring across the square at a staggering speed. The Baltics trembled, grateful they had the good sense to sign the ultimatum and avoid bringing the wrath of Russia's army down on their heads, and hating themselves for feeling that way.

The crowds remained after the parade had finished, still trapped in the euphoric high created by the speech and subsequent festivities. As the Baltics made their way to the Kremlin, progress slowed every time they passed by a high-ranking officer and had to salute (they were in uniform after all, and the last thing they wanted was to get arrested by the _army_), Liet couldn't help but feel that Russia had pulled off the day perfectly: his people had been worried, fearful of a war with Germany, but now a majority of those concerns had been abated, at least temporarily. Russia had shown them the might of the Red Army, assured them through action and word that he would protect them against all odds. And even the speech! The enemy was Western Europe, please; only a moron wouldn't realize that Timoshenko was talking about Germany…

It was all a lie of course. The Red Army might be larger than the Germany army, but the Germany army hadn't been crippled by sweeping purges of its top military officers. And even now, Stalin was running another purge, systematically destroying the high command of the air force…

The guards demanded their papers at the entrance to the Kremlin; they handed them over with the explanation that they were instructed to meet Tovarishch Bragniski at the Armory. The guards frowned at them, particularly at their uniforms, but admitted them into the walled compound, assigning a guard to act as an escort to the hall.

The Armory was tucked away in the northern corner of the Kremlin, a trapezoid-shaped two-storey building surrounded by hundreds of old cannons. At Latvia's amazed reaction, the guard explained briefly that the cannons were captured during Napoleon's retreat in the Patriotic War of 1812, before showing them to the door and handing them over to the guards there, who sent them inside with the orders to wait in the second room to the left. They went, finding a round table laden with tea snacks that they didn't dare touch until Russia showed up, and second table with six places set.

And while they waited in the quiet, the music of the army band only a faint sound within the compound, Liet felt some of the tension slowly bleed away. Being in the Armory shouldn't make him feel safe, but he reasoned that surrounded by disciplined soldiers might be better than engulfed by an angry mob. Granted, they weren't riotous, but Timoshenko's speech had enflamed a patriotism in them that Liet found frightening. He figured that was the point of the whole exercise: Russia demanded that they come in order to show them exactly what they were up against, exactly why it was best for themselves and their people if they kept their mouths shut and went along willingly. Really, Poland might have benefited from this little venture more than any of them…

Russia arrived a few minutes later—Liet noted with relief that the rifle was gone. He absently returned the guard's salute at the door, then entered, hanging his cap next to the Baltics' before walking over to them, adjusting the familiar scarf.

"So, what did you think?" he asked brightly, positively beaming, lit up by his people's enthusiasm.

'It was terrifying' immediately popped into Liet's head, but he figured that wasn't appropriate, so instead tried a polite, "It was very impressive, Russia Zimavich." His voice wavered threateningly and he swallowed.

Russia smiled, proud and pleased.

Latvia nodded in agreement, but then frowned slightly, confused. "But, why did they keep calling you the Motherland?"

"Latvia," Estonia whispered faintly.

But the huge nation didn't get angry. "… When I was very young, they said 'Fatherland'," Russia said slowly, eyes focused as if trying to inspect something far away. "But then it changed…" He blinked, snapping out of his memory. "Well, I guess mothers are more comforting then fathers, da?"

"Perhaps you would like some tea, Russia Zimavich?" Estonia asked hopefully, eager to draw attention away from the smallest Baltic.

"Da, spasiba, but we should wait for everyone to get here."

Liet glanced at the six place settings. But, who else was coming?

Just as Latvia started to ask that very question, the door to the room opened; the guard saluted Russia before stepping aside to admit—

Lithuania and his brothers froze.

Germany.

---

Oh yes, this will be the most pleasant tea-time ever, da? ^^;;;

The scene in the beginning deals with the Mongol invasion of Russia, probably the _only_ successful invasion of Russia.

I've been dying to write about May Day for so long! The speech given by Timoshenko was heavily borrowed from Igor Štiks's_ A Castle in Romagna_; I claim no rights to that, having only altered it slightly from its original (originally the speech was given by a major of Yugoslavia _against_ the Soviet Union). Yeah but, it's so full of communist BS it's not funny. And no, not _everyone_ in the audience believed Timoshenko, but Lithuania doesn't know that. The BT-7 tank was the fastest tank of that time, capable of speeds up to 80km/h (50mph).

And for you, dear readers, I have two video clips. The first is actual footage from the May Day parade in 1941, the very parade the Baltics have just watched, and the second is from the movie Bitva za Moskvu, Fight for Moscow, also about the 1941 May Day parade. Historically speaking, the first is obviously more accurate (in the movie, Stalin gives the speech, when in reality it was Timoshenko), but both give a good idea of what the Baltics were witnessing. And yes, the speech was given from Lenin's Mausoleum...

http:// www. youtube. com/ watch?v =bfWq09jXWZY  
http:// www. youtube. com/ watch?v =pn9IzG4MqhM&feature =related

Ponchiki are Russian donuts, essentially; Latvia's eating the donut centers.

The next update may not come as fast as this one, as I have a lot of schoolwork coming up before finals, but I will do my best.

Read and review, comrades!


	14. Hints

Not much to say about this chapter. My professors have decided that everything will be due Monday, which sucks. This also means that the next chapter may be coming out a little late, because school. And finals. And why? T_T (Sorry for the abrupt formatting change--this website is trying to be difficult again.)

* * *

Russia grinned, striding up other to the other nation, hand outstretched. "Guten Tag, mein Kamerad! Wie geht es Ihnen?"

If Germany was surprised by the language he didn't show it, shaking the offered hand firmly. "Danke, gut. Und Sie?" he responded automatically, hanging his own cap next to the rest, unconsciously running a hand through his hair to flatten any strays.

"Sehr gut, danke!" Russia laughed. "And now I am afraid I have expended my knowledge of German," he confessed, switching to English. "Do you mind?"

That's a blatant lie, Liet thought. Russia's last tsarina was German; he was fluent in the language. And if Lithuania knew this, then so did Germany.

"Not at all," the strict country replied evenly, also shifting into English.

A power play, Liet realized suddenly. The greeting was a sign of friendliness, but Russia refused to speak in German because it suggested that Germany was in control; and while Germany should speak Russian on Russian soil, he also wanted to avoid the connotation of inferior strength. So they used a (relatively) neutral language instead…

Germany's blue eyes flicked over to Liet and his brothers, measuring them each in turn. There was something in the man's gaze—expectation? p-possession? sympathy?—that made the brunette nervous. Germany glanced back at Russia and asked, "Where is Poland?"

Lithuania stiffened; Poland still had another three months before he had to go back.

"Oh, Polshka was not feeling very well this morning; I let him stay home," Russia said, another lie. "Would not want to work him to death, da?"

Germany didn't react to the jab. "Hopefully he will feel better soon."

The arctic nation nodded in agreement. "Well, please take a seat, Germany," he invited, gesturing to the table. "I see that your excitable ally did not accompany you," he added, motioning for Latvia to remove the extra chair.

Caution and distrust flickered across Germany's face for an instant. "Ja, I thought it best for him to continue training with his men," he replied indifferently, sitting to face the door. Russia sat down to Germany's left; Lithuania realized that if they followed their usual seating pattern, Latvia would wind up next to Russia, and he'd be next to Germany.

"A pity," the huge nation remarked, then lapsed back into Russian, "Litva, chai puzhalista?"

Liet blinked, what? But then he realized and went to the table decked with snacks, ferrying various treats back, pastries, rolls and jam, candied orange peels, a small cake, honey, lemon slices—where the hell did Russia get lemon slices at the beginning of spring?— before he moved to the samovar that stood on its own little side table, filling cups of tea and setting them before each person as Russia mildly harassed Germany to eat something and discovered that not everyone had his sweet tooth. As Liet placed a cup of tea in front of Russia, he caught sight of the approving little smirk and quickly turned away before the huge nation could see his own reaction.

Serving tea to Germany! He served tea often enough at home—Russia's home! he correctly angrily—but in front of Germany! Once everyone had their drinks, Liet took his seat next to the disciplined nation, struggling to fight down a blush. Really, he should have known the show wasn't over yet. They were the last exhibit, he and his brothers, Russia's last boasting point for the day. He refused to meet Russia's eyes as the country made polite conversation, asking after Austria and Prussia's health; Liet could just imagine the thoughts floating through the arctic nation's head: _Look, my little Baltics listen so well! They wear my uniform and salute my officers, follow commands and dare not refuse; my good little servant-soldiers._ He kept his head down as the conversation shifted to commerce, trying to drown his shame in tea.

"Da, da, there has been no problem with getting shipments out," Russia said, dismissing Germany's concern, referring to the steady supply of food and militarily significant materials being sent to the tenuously allied country.

"I heard there were food shortages among some of your people," Germany mentioned off-handedly.

He looked ridiculous with that delicate tea cup, Liet decided sullenly.

Russia popped a sugar cube in his mouth and washed it down. "Ah, I am sorry such lies reached your ears. Some are envious of the lives my people have here; they seek to spoil our happiness."

"I'm glad things are going so well for you then," Germany replied diplomatically.

_They don't believe a word the other is saying…_

"Thank you. So please, take the equipment, is no trouble. I feel you need it more than I."

Germany's brow knitted faintly in confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked, tone light.

"For your pilots," Russia answered, as if this were obvious. "I keep getting reports, German planes in Russian airspace. I am thinking, you and I, we have nonaggression treaty. Why would German planes fly into Russian airspace?" The huge nation shrugged. "So, either your pilots are poorly trained, or the instruments in your planes are broken."

A ringing silence. The sudden tension was palpable; Estonia had froze with a tea cup at his lips, while the piece of cake Latvia had half-way to his mouth fell off the fork from the force of his trembling. Liet shifted uncomfortably, sneaking a glance at the stiff country next to him—his expression was guarded, eyes wary. _He knows about the flights, maybe even ordered them__._

"Ja, I will have to look into this. It's certainly not acceptable," he said neutrally, putting the tea cup down.

"Thank you, I would appreciate this." Russia stood, smiling. "I have probably kept you from your attaché for too long—"

Germany murmured something to the same effect as he stood; the Baltics followed suit a moment later, remaining by the table as the arctic nation walked Germany to the door.

"I wish you luck with England," Russia offered, waiting as Germany put on his cap.

"I doubt it will come down to luck," he said bluntly.

Russia laughed as they shook hands again. "Da, probably. And France is doing well?"

Germany nodded shortly. "Ja, well." A pause. "His German is terrible."

"I am not surprised," Russia said, opening the door and admitting Germany into the hall. "France and England… Good luck with them in the same house."

"Tch," the man scoffed, evidentially displeased at the idea. "Good bye, Russia."

"Good bye, Germany," the huge nation smiled.

The other country left, and Russia shut the door with a small sigh, then turned back to the Baltics.

"That was good, da?" he said to no one in particular. He looked exhausted suddenly.

Liet stayed silent, recalling the huge nation's words so many nights ago: _War with Germany is inevitable, I think…_

Lithuania feared he was right.

Russia came down off his people's high _hard_. When they got home he went straight for vodka, fetching some from the liquor cabinet before going to the living room; he turned the radio to the news and let it play as he lay on the sofa, drinking straight from the bottle. With the living room thus occupied, the Baltics double checked the kitchen to make sure everything was clean, then went upstairs to Liet's room.

"That was really scary," Latvia confided, shoulders hunched up by his ears.

"I think that was the point," Estonia remarked dryly, pulling out the desk chair and sitting.

Liet took a seat on his bed. "That and show off to Germany," he added darkly. Latvia clambered up next to him as he leaned over and flicked on his own radio, an old beaten up thing he had found on the side of the street and managed to fix up. He found a classical music station and left it there, hoping the noise would be enough to drown out their conversation. "Russia was right: he and Germany are definitely going to go to war."

Estonia paled. "You think so?"

"You heard their conversation. Flyovers? Germany's scouting…"

"B- But Russia's sending him military supplies," Latvia squeaked. "Wh- why would he send him guns if he thinks Germany will invade?"

"Probably for the same reason England and France let him get away with having Austria move in…" Estonia mused quietly.

"T- to buy time?" The tallest Baltic nodded.

"Apparently Germany's planning to invade England next," Liet told them, tossing out the bit of relevant information.

His brothers looked surprised. "How do you know?"

"… Russia told me. I know!" he exclaimed at the look Estonia gave him. "But, Russia was, drunk, and I—" He broke off, remembering, _He wanted me that night_. _He almost—_

"Russia's _always_ drunk."

"More drunk than usual. But, I think he was serious."

"Russia could probably say the grass was purple with a straight face."

Liet scowled. "Fine. But why would he lie about Germany invading England?"

"Why does Russia lie about anything?"

"T- to scare us. To make us feel bad…" Latvia murmured, hugging a pillow to his chest.

"No, I mean—" Lithuania broke off, pinched the bridge of his nose. "It wouldn't have accomplished any of his usual objectives. Maybe to confuse; I couldn't figure out why he'd tell me. But it was more like he was talking to himself."

"And how did Russia know?"

Liet blinked. "I… don't know. He seemed pretty sure of it although, he thinks Germany won't break their treaty so soon after signing it."

"So you think Germany's planning to invade Russia?" Estonia stated.

"Definitely. But…" Lithuania chewed the inside of his lip, contemplative. "I don't know if he'll do it before or after England."

"W- will England lose?" Latvia asked, worry and sadness dominating his features.

"Germany has pretty much _all_ of Western Europe. Russia won't come to England's defense, and America's diplomatic stance means turning a deaf ear to Europe's troubles," Estonia affirmed, quickly summarizing the interconnected facts.

"Yeah, America's diplomacy," Latvia scoffed. The young Baltic made a show of covering his ears and closing his eyes. "La la la, I can't hear you, not my problem," he sing-songed in broken English.

His brothers gave half-hearted smiles. "So yes, England will probably fall," Estonia continued sadly, then paused, pushing his glass up. "It would make more sense to close the western front before attacking Russia though…"

"Two fronts got him in trouble last time," Lithuania agreed.

They were silent a moment, considering the last war, when Russia had his revolutions and left, the treaty eventually got them all independence again. Maybe if they were lucky, they'd have their freedom again with this war. Of course, that meant getting through it first…

Estonia stood. "Well, I'm going to go back to my room. There's a book I want to finish." He went to the door, opening it. "We'll talk later."

Latvia slid off the bed. "I'll go too. Bye, Lithuania," he offered with a tiny smile.

"Bye." Liet waited until they had both left, then five minutes more, before fishing out a bent paperclip. A minute later he softly opened the door to Poland's room and found it empty of said country.

He took a step in, disbelieving. No, Poland didn't have to go back for another three months, why was he gone? He could've have _run_, right? He listened, heard nothing.

"Poland?" he whispered, slowly walking into the room, the dying sunlight leaving the floor a bloody red. "Polska?"

"Liet?" the closet door cracked open just enough to reveal Poland crouching on the floor. "Like, I thought you guys were at Russia's stupid festival?"

He didn't miss the disapproving note in his words. "We were. What are—"

"What the hell are you wearing?" Poland demanded, scowling.

Lithuania glanced down; he was still wearing the new uniform. "Russia wanted us to wear them," he mumbled, cheeks coloring. "What are you doing in there?"

Poland pursed his lips in displeasure before beckoned him over. "Working," he whispered, admitting Liet into the cramped closet space. The Baltic squeezed in, pushing a hangers of clothes out of the way to kneel on the floor, hunched over across from the blond. Poland shut the door, dropping them into complete darkness; there was a scrap and a hiss, the smell of sulphur as he lit a match, then a small candle. Light flickered and grew.

"What do you mean, working?" Liet asked, watching as his friend rummaged through the pockets of some shirts, pulling out a pen and an old bottle cork. From a split seam on a jacket's lining, he extracted papers, some blank, some written out in Polish.

"Unlike you, _I_ still have a country to run," Poland said, selecting an empty sheet. As he started writing, Lithuania reached next to him for the other papers, mindful of the candle flame. Some of it just seemed to be gibberish, but others had long strings of numbers, weapon abbreviations, lists of locations, supplies, safehouses…

"My god…" Lithuania whispered, amazed. "You're directing your rebel forces from _here_?"

"Absolutely."

"But _how_?"

"Extensive use of code, short-hand, like what we use only different," Poland answered without looking up. "There's ways to get shit out of this fucking hell hole without Russia finding out."

"But half the time you're locking in your ro—"

"You honestly think I can't, like, climb out a second-storey window?" he said flatly, giving him a look. "Way to like, totally have faith in me."

"No, I mean…" Lihuania shook his head, momentarily speechless. "It's amazing, Polska."

"Yeah well, that's because I'm just that totally awesome, you know?" He put the pen down and took hold of the candle, tilting it so wax dripped onto the bottom of the page. He pressed the end of the cork into the cooling puddle; when he lifted it, a roughly carved Polish eagle stared back at them. Poland set that letter aside and rifled through some other papers, scanning them. "So, how was Russia's 'happy commies' day' parade?" he asked casually.

"Terrifying," Liet admitted, then, "Germany was there."

A letter slipped from Poland's grasp into the candle flame, a corner igniting instantly. Liet jerked back as the fire fluttered towards his feet, upsetting the candle; Poland swore, quickly putting out the flame as Liet stomped the paper out. Once more in darkness, he heard Poland fumbling for the matches, "Damn it, where are they?" A flare of light and Poland became visible, face thrown into sharp relief by the flame.

"Germany's here?" he demanded, match held in front of him like a shield.

"No, not here; at the parade," Liet explained.

Poland flicked the match out as fire licked his fingertips, immediately lighting a second one, this time setting the candle back up. "And what did he want?" he asked tersely, gathering up the scattered papers.

"They were just talking," Lithuania sighed. "I think they're going to go to war."

"Well duh," Poland said, rolling his eyes. "His boss said he was going to in that book he wrote, remember?"

"No one took him seriously back then. Things are different now…"

"Well good. Fucking serves Russia right, taste of his own medicine…" the blonde grumbled.

"What?"

"Germany is going to kick Russia's _ass_," Poland pronounced.

"But Russia—"

"Isn't as strong as Germany," he interrupted. "I don't know how it got into your head that Russia's like, some ridiculously powerful, undefeatable nation. He's totally not. You and I have beaten Russia before. And those Purges his boss keeps doing? No way. The only advantage Russia has is more people than Germany."

"Yeah, but…"

"Liet, you haven't seen Germany fight in like, twenty years," Poland said. "Do you know what he calls his war tactics now?" At the Baltic's silence, he answered, "Blitzkrieg," the German word sounding strange on his tongue. "It means 'lighting war'. He moves _fast_, Liet; like, really, really fast. My army—" The blonde choked up suddenly, tears springing to his eyes that he quickly fought back. "—my army's not a push-over. We gave it everything we had; Germany kicked my ass in a month…" Poland fell silent, green gaze fixed on the candle flame. "He just storms in, kicks down the door, bombs everything. That's how he does it: bombs first, then tanks, then soldiers." He shook his head, trying to clear the memories. "Trust me; Germany's going to kick Russia's ass," he repeated, starting another letter.

Lithuania was silent. He so desperately wanted Poland to be right. If Germany beat Russia in a war, then maybe he could get his independence back…

"Russia won't go down without a fight," he murmured.

Poland sighed, putting down his pen and looking his friend straight in the eye. "Then Germany will kill him."

The certainty in his words made Liet shiver. Not for Russia—Russia had brought this on himself—but for everyone else. Everyone caught in the cross-fire.

"I'll let you keep working then," he said somewhat awkwardly, maneuvering around the candle. Poland opened the door for him and he stepped out into the room—damn, that closet was stifling hot! He turned back, bit his lip and added, "Be careful, Poland," with a nod toward the letters.

Poland smiled, his face inexpressibly sad. "Hey Liet, promise me that if I die and there's a body, you'll bury me in Polish soil?"

"Poland—"

"Please, Liet." And the smile was gone, just a gaunt young man at his feet, his closest friend, desperation coloring his eyes a shining emerald. Lithuania felt his throat close up.

"I promise," he croaked. "I promise, Poland."

A look of relief passed over him, his shoulders slumping. "Thanks," he breathed, before shutting the closet door. Liet stood there for a moment, knowing there was something he could say, there had to be, and not having the foggiest idea what it was.

From behind the door he heard the muffled sound of crying.

He fled the room quickly, before he started as well.

Liet returned to his room, tried to settle into a book and couldn't—he was restless, he needed to _do_ something. If he didn't, then his thoughts would drift back to Russia and Germany, the war, Poland… Pacing, he glance at the clock and realized that it was nearly five—he hadn't started anything for dinner. But he stopped at the top of the stairs, wondering if there was a point to dinner after all those sweets at tea. Maybe he'd make something small, start preparing things for tomorrow night…

He crept through the living room as quietly as possible, fairly certain Russia was still there and unwilling to attract his attention, and slipped into the kitchen. Open sandwiches would be the easiest, nice and light after tea, but they had sandwiches earlier, so maybe just a bunch of pickled snacks. Actually, pickled herring and onion with sour cream on rye sounded really good. He brought some up to Latvia and Estonia, giving a second plate to latter with the request to bring it to Poland.

Estonia favored him with an unreadable expression over the top of his book. "If you can get into Poland's room, then why ask me to bring him dinner?"

Liet heard the potential for a fight in his words and almost took it—what was Estonia's problem? Russia had given him the key after all—but held back, placing the extra plate on the dresser. "Because I'm going to see if Russia wants anything to eat," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. "Unless you'd rather trade?"

Estonia ducked back into his book sheepishly.

_Yeah, that's what I thought_…

Downstairs, Lithuania hovered uncertainly by the doorway. He knew that if he didn't offer Russia dinner the results could be disastrous, but at the same time, the idea of bothering the frigid nation when he had been drinking all evening wasn't appealing…

"Russia Zimavich?" he called from the doorway.

No response, just the radio broadcaster reporting various May Day festivities across the country. He hadn't passed out, had he?

"Russia Zimavich?" he tried again, slightly louder.

"Da, Litva?" Russia queried lazily, hidden from view on the sofa.

"Ah, would you um, like anything for dinner?"

"Nyet. I am not hungry."

Liet twisted the edge of his shirt. "Oh, okay… Um, l-let me know if you need anything…"

A bemused sound, a hand appearing over the sofa's back, beckoning, "Come here, Litva."

Damn it… Lithuania came around the sofa, stopping by Russia's feet. The nation looked oddly relaxed: the outer coat of his uniform had been tossed haphazardly to the side, one arm draped over his stomach and the other within easy reach of an open bottle on the floor, two others nearby, already empty. The top three buttons of his undercoat were open and his scarf had been tugged loose around his neck, the sight of Russia's bare throat so odd that Liet's eyes lingered a moment—good god, were those scars? Faint lines criss-crossing otherwise smooth skin and Liet flushed, gaze dropping to the floor, embarrassed to have caught a glimpse of something so personal. Was that the reason for the perpetual scarf? How did he get them?

Russia relinquished his hold on the vodka, gesturing to Liet, "Come here, Litva," he cooed again.

The Baltic hesitated, edging forward; Russia took his wrist the moment he was in range, tugging. "Sit, sit."

"O- On the sofa?" There wasn't room.

"The floor, if you'd like."

Liet start to sit—"Nyet, nyet, the other direction." He swallowed and sat cross-legged, facing away from Russia. Fabric rustled as the arctic nation shifted, and Liet flinched when a hand came to rest on his head, petting his hair. He stared at the swirl pattern on the rug, feeling his cheeks burn. As if servant and slave weren't bad enough, now he was a dog?

"Your hair is very soft," Russia murmured, threading his fingers through the chestnut strands. Lithuania bit his lip, shuddering when icy fingertips brushed along the back of his neck, why was he just sitting there letting him do this?

"So nervous…" A light, mocking tone. "I worry you…"

"I- If you don't need anything, Russia Zimavich, I, ah, need to go do the dishes…" Liet tried feebly, wincing as fingers trailed higher to his cheek, gripped his chin and forced his face to the side. He could see Russia out of the corner of his eye, staring at him; he kept his gaze averted, heart pounding. He shouldn't have said that, oh god…

"Is that so?" the huge nation said quietly, running a thumb along Liet's lower lip.

"Da," he managed faintly.

Russia released him. "Go then," he said wearily, dismissive, sounding very much the old noble he used to be and the Baltic scrambled to his feet and retreated into the kitchen mumbling a thank you, amazed. Was it really that easy? He just had to work up the courage to ask?

He washed up the few utensils from preparing dinner, debating whether or not to ask his brothers to wash their dinner dishes themselves; he didn't want to do this twice. As it was, once he finished, he had to get back through the living room in order to go upstairs…

"Litva."

He squeaked in surprise as Russia stepped up behind him, enveloping the smaller country in a loose embrace; Liet tensed, trapped, as Russia bowed his head, breathing in the scent of his hair. The exhale sent shivers down his spine.

"Like spring," Russia sighed. Liet could smell vodka, vodka and cold and this wasn't safe. "You can grow sunflowers…"

"R- Russia Zimavich—"

"Chto eto, Litva?" he mumbled, bending somewhat to reach, lips grazing the soft skin alongside his neck. A broken sound rose in Liet's throat and he swallowed thickly.

"I- I don't, want this, Russia…" he said weakly, eyes shut as if to block out the sensation.

Russia rocked forward slightly, his weight pressing the Baltic against the counter, pinning him there. "You haven't tried to stop me." A feather-soft kiss at the same spot, followed by a deeper one that made Liet stuck in a startled breath.

"I- I can't—"

"Not true," the huge nation disagreed, "You could say, 'Russia, stop it…'" He slipped a hand under the Baltic's shirt and Liet jerked backwards reflexively, into the huge nation.

"You'd hu- hurt me if I s- said that," he stuttered, trying to squirm away but Russia's grip across his mid-chest only tightened.

"I only hurt you when you deserve it," Russia whispered huskily, then nipped Liet's ear.

Lithuania flinched, whimpering, "Please Russia…" tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

"Please what, Litva? I thought I told you to be specific," Russia chided, hold loosening as he explored the contours of Liet's stomach and ribs, tracing bone and muscle with wondering sweeps; his other hand reached up and gently pushed Liet's head forward, his hair aside to expose the back of his neck where the cold nation placed delicate little porcelain kisses. "Please what?"

Tears fell into the sink. "Please _stop_," Liet sobbed, his whole body trembling, hands curled into fists on the counter's edge. "Please don't do this…"

"I've barely done anything yet…" He toyed with buttons on Liet's shirt, undoing to the bottom two before tracing the skin just above the edge of his pants. Lithuania stared unseeing into the sink, shoulders shaking with silent tears. Russia's hand drifted lower along his side, feeling the curve of his hip and forward over his thigh, Lithuania's breath hitched—

Someone cleared their throat loudly.

Russia stopped, unmoving for an instant before he straightened, freeing Liet as he turned to face the intruder.

"Can I help you, Estonia?" he asked politely.

Liet stayed rooted to the spot, unable to bring himself to look.

Estonia's answer was as shaky as he was. "Ju- just hoping to finish up the dishes, Russia Zimavich. Uh, I hope that's not a- a problem…"

Lithuania could feel the quiet fury rolling off Russia in waves. "Liet was washing the dishes," the man answered sweetly. A heavy pause, then, "I'm sure he'll finish those for you."

"I- I w- wouldn't want to make him d- do all the work—"

"_Estonia_."

_No, go, just go._ Liet thought desperately. _I don't want you to get caught up in all of this._

"I'm- I'm sorry, Russia Zimavich," the brother stammered. "I'll just- ah, just—"

"Go, Estonia," Russia said quietly.

He bolted. Lithuania's heart sank as footsteps faded.

Neither of the remaining nations moved, Liet still standing at the sink, Russia facing the entrance to the living room.

"You look out for each other," the huge nation remarked nonchalantly.

Liet nodded, realized Russia couldn't see him and added, "Da." He held his breath for a beat, then continued cautiously, "Like you take care of your sisters…"

Silence. Then Russia left the kitchen without another word.

Liet heard his heavy footsteps up the stairs; suddenly his legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor. Holy god… Russia had almost, he would've— He cried, a low moaning sound twisting its way out of him, his terror, his relief, his shame. Russia had to have the worst luck in the world—first Belarus and now Estonia—and the thought made him cry harder, because luck never lasted and he was _so scared…_

Gradually he calmed down, the tears abating. He went back to his room and shut the door, wedging the back of the chair under the doorknob. Liet changed into his night clothes and crawled into bed, curling up around his pillow, tucking the blanket up to his neck—Russia had scars, where did they come from?—and he stared into the darkness of his room until he could swear Russia was staring back, violet gaze dark with madness and desire, and he couldn't decide which was worse, having his eyes open or having them shut. Any moment Russia was going to come in, punish him for his defiance with the door and finish what he started and there wasn't anything he could do and he wanted to go home…

He fell asleep crying.

* * *

God damn it, Russia, bad things happen when you get drunk! Also, Poland's kind of a badass. ^^

I think the only new vocab for this chapter was German?

Russia's first line: Guten Tag, mein Kamerad! Wie geht es Ihnen?-- Hello (or Good day), my comrade! How are you? (Note that in German, Kamerad does not have the political connotations that usually does; Russia's specifically not using the political version of comrade. Also, most people ask 'how are you' with Wie geht's?, Russia's just being polite.)

Germany's response: Danke, gut. Und Sie?-- Thank you, good. And you? (Again, Germany returns the formality level by using Sie instead of du.)

Russia's answer: Sehr gut, danke!-- Very good, thanks.

What else to say... Yeah, Russia was still sending Germany military supplies a month and twenty-two days before Germany attacked him. German troops are gathering by the borders at the very moment, and German planes (the ones Russia isn't happy about) are surveying the land, to better form battle plans. This can't end well...

Again, thanks to school and life endeavoring to _eat _me, the next chapter may be a touch late in coming.

Read and review, comrades!


	15. Déjà vu

Next chapter! Sorry this took so long to post; as predicted, school and finals and moving and such distracted me... I'm hoping to continue with the weekly-ish updates (considering there is so little left), but currently I'm going to be teaching Japanese and color guard part-time for the next three weeks, while living with two of my Russian friends (we're all one with Russia, da? XD). So I don't know how time will work out for me. I will do my best.

* * *

The next day Russia acted like nothing had happened, as usual, which suited Liet just fine. Estonia made no mention of what he saw either, and Lithuania hoped that he had also neglected to tell Latvia. Poland was released from solitary confinement a day later and tried to demand pony cakes again, but when Liet explained that they were out of food dye and the only way to turn them pink would be to put beets in them the blonde backed down, claiming that beets were for borscht, not pancakes. Liet agreed.

Breakfast, chores, errands, free time, avoiding Russia's wrath. Life had an almost predictable pattern to it, the structure as comforting as it was soul-crushing. The only random variable was the last one, fickle moods ever-changing as Russia tried to keep up with his boss's rapid demands. One particular evening he returned home in a foul temper; the Baltics stuttered their customary greeting and Latvia made the mistake of asking how the country's day was, to which Russia snarled 'horrible', flinging his hat at the coat rack as he kicked his boots off.

"Arrests, arrests, the whole day—arrests!" he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "Dozens of men, all spies and saboteurs and anti-Soviet conspirators! I'm sick of these traitors! To the Gulags with the lot of them; I hope they _rot _there!"

Even Poland had backed into the corner with the others during the tirade, and wisely kept his mouth shut until Russia stormed up the stairs to his office, slamming the door behind him.

"Geez, you'd think he'd take a hint," the blonde muttered.

When Russia came down for dinner he was back to his 'normal self', pleasantly liquored up and cheery, his earlier rage forgotten or more likely submerged under the soothing balm of alcohol.

But it was outbursts like that which kept the Baltics quiet and cautious, for fear of catching Russia's attention when he was in such a state. Only Poland had the nerve to grumble under his breath when Russia was furious, sometimes within earshot, leading to a number of frightening stand-offs that ended with Poland acquiring fresh bruises to replace the fading ones. Russia quickly realized that the rebellious blonde only got louder when struck so he altered his tactics somewhat to avoid the sort of careless backhand he routinely dealt the Baltics. Instead, he seemed to coil his displeasure into a tightly wound spring, mentally tallying Poland's sarcastic jabs over the course of a day or two, until finally he whirled on the blond, grabbing his shoulder and sinking his fist into Poland's stomach. A crooked little smile would tilt his lips as the smaller nation crumpled to the ground at his feet, either unconscious or dangerously close. Either way, his verbal rebuttal was effectively silenced for a time.

"Take him up to his room, Litva," Russia instructed as Liet rushed to Poland's side, the boy making odd croaking gasps as he tried to drag air into his abused lungs. "I think he needs a chance to calm down, da?" He smiled condescendingly, triumphantly, and walked away.

Poland watched him go, eyes dull yet glaring as Lithuania helped him to his feet. "Whu- what a- _bastard_," he spat, wheezing.

But the abrupt violence apparently spared Poland any more solitary confinement, allowing the blonde a chance to get out of the house, usually when Russia was away working.

"You know, Russia's place is just like, really depressing," he remarked, waving towards the dreary apartment buildings lining the street. "I don't even think painting it like, pink, would help."

Liet glanced up from the shopping list as they walked along. "If anything, he'd paint them red."

"Ugh, yeah. He's totally ruining that color for me," Poland complained. "Which is like, such bullshit, because it was totally one of my colors first, you know? His stupid soldiers, when they invaded, they like, fucking ripped all my flags in half, hung the red back up and used the white for bandages." He made a face. "How's that for like, totally disrespecting a country, right? Symbolic though; of course he trashes the color for purity. He ruins everything… Like my house! You know he painted over everything? What a jerk! He—"

Lithuania just let his friend rant, figuring it was better he get it out of his system now rather than say any of this to Russia's face later.

"Oh! Hold on a second, Liet," Poland broke off suddenly, running across the street and narrowly avoiding a car which blared its horn; he flashed the driver a rude sign and disappeared into a dubious-looking bar.

Lithuania stood there, confused, before following, crossing the street in a safer manner and entering the tiny establishment. He blinked, eyes watering, and peered through the smoke and dim lighting, spotting Poland standing in the back, chatting with a man tucked into the corner. The Baltic picked his way around the crowded tables, factory workers on their lunch break stepped up to Poland's side, "We should go—"

The bespectacled man with whom Poland had been talking hastily hid a sheaf of papers under the table, worry creasing his face like a well-worn mold. Liet opened his mouth to apologize for whatever he had done but Poland cut him off, "No, he's okay, don't worry about it. Toris, this is Timofei; Timofei, Toris," introducing them in Russian.

Timofei shook his hand, still cautious, "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Lithuania responded before switching to Polish and muttering urgently, "Feliks, what are you doing? We have to—"

"_Relax_, Toris. Give me like, five minutes," he replied before shifting back to Russian and addressing Timofei, "Sorry about him; he's such a worry-wart." Poland explained, sliding into the booth across from the man, gesturing for Liet to do the same. "So like, did you find that copy of Bulgakov I wanted?"

Timofei cast another untrusting glance in the Baltic's direction before answering, "No, it seems a lot of people are after his work. I might be able to get someone to type up another one for you though; we need more in circulation anyways."

"Damn. Well, okay, that works I guess. Nothing by Pilnyak either?"

Lithuania realized what was going on. "Drugi obieg?" Poland nodded.

Timofei ignored the random Polish. "People are just copying Pilnyak. His execution scared folks." He shuffled though the stack of papers and selected one, scanning it before he handed it to Poland, saying, "This one I think you'd appreciate though. Mandelstam's sixteen-line death sentence."

Lithuania leaned over curiously, trying to read over the blonde's shoulder, but Poland shifted and blocked his view, silent as he read. He whistled softly when he finished, handing the slip of paper to Liet as he quietly exclaimed, "Shit, that's brilliant! Mandelstam was the one that said Russia was the only guy—the only country that respected poetry, right? Because it could get you killed."

"The very one," Timofei nodded. "Do you want it?"

"Hell yes," Poland said, pulling out a few folded rubles. "Do can you find me his Moskow Notebook too? I—"

"Feliks, you cannot bring this in the house," Liet stated, neglecting to switch into Polish, eyes wide as he stared at the poem. "Ivan will kill you."

"Who's Ivan?" Timofei asked, caution creeping back into his voice.

"An asshole, works for the government. Don't worry Toris, it'll be fine—"

"No, he'll _find _this and—where did you even get that money?" Liet demanded as Poland paid for the copy and plucked it from Liet's fingers, tucking it away in a breast pocket as he stood.

"I hawked something of Ivan's on the black market a few days ago, no big deal—"

"You _what?_" The Baltic gasped, jumping to his feet.

Timofei shook his head, half-amused. "You Poles are all crazy," he said with a look of incredulity.

Poland stood straighter, head held high. "And damn proud," he announced, before grabbing Liet's hand and pulling him towards the door. "Thanks again, Tima!"

Out on the street Lithuania rounded on Poland, demanding, "What the hell was that? Are you insane? Russia will _kill you_ if he finds that!"

"Mind your own business, Liet," the blonde snapped, starting down the road. "It's not going to hurt you, right? That's what you're really worried about."

"Poland, you are asking Russia to beat you," Liet said, matching his pace. "Think of your people!"

"I _am_ thinking of my people," Poland retorted. "They want to fight. So I'll fight. "

"It's suicide!"

"Well then, at least _my_ people are brave enough to do it."

Lithuania stopped dead in his tracks, then quickly recovered. "Don't you dare insult my people; we're fighting our own way. Forgive me if that doesn't involve throwing myself under the nearest Russian tank!"

"Whatever, Liet," Poland huffed, dismissive. "Let's just get the stupid shopping done, yeah? That way you can get back to licking Russia's boots—"

"Fuck you!" Lithuania shouted, shoving him. "I do not!" Poland staggered back a few steps and Liet realized, "Ah, Poland, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Jerk!" the blonde yelled, returning the favor, shoving him back with each declaration. "Fucking Russia wannabe! Commie sympathizer! You're nothing since we split!"

It stung. "Hey, I'm not the one that got my ass kicked by _two_ countries!"

Liet caught a glimpse of the fury on Poland's face just before the fist collided with his jaw.

They descended into blows, shouting obscenities, grappling, trying to knock the other down; suddenly, shouting, strong arms grabbing Liet and hauling him back, his arms twisted behind him. Across from him Poland likewise struggled in vain against a second officer, cussing out the man up and down in Polish.

"You again?"

Liet twisted to see the man restraining him—Vasnetsov. "What the hell's going on here? You drunk in the streets?"

"What? No!" Lithuania said desperately. _Not this again!_ "Just— We had a disagreement, nothing serious, I—"

"Nothing serious? Disorderly conduct, disturbance of the peace—"

Poland slammed his head back and caught the officer in the mouth, wrenching himself free and bolting down the street. The office swore, blood already pouring from his lips.

"Get back here!" Vasnetsov cried, unholstering his pistol—

Liet's eyes widened, "No don't shoot!"

The shot rang out, clipping Poland in the calf; he toppled mid-run with a shriek of agony, the bloodied officer racing up and pinning him to the ground.

"Don't bother, kid, you're down," the officer said, handcuffing Poland as the nation thrashed beneath him. Vasnetsov jogged over, Lithuania in tow. "You're under arrest for disorderly conduct, disturbance of the peace, and attempted assault of an NKVD officer—"

"Nie mówię po rosyjsku," Poland managed through gritted teeth, face pressed against the cobblestone.

"Shut it, kid. You're under arrest, did you hear me?"

"Nie mówię po rosyjsku," the blonde repeated, slightly louder.

"What'd he say?" Vasnetsov demanded, looking at Lithuania.

"H- He says he doesn't speak Russian," Liet translated, half worried and half furious. _Thanks a lot, Poland._

"Great," the officer sighed, pulling the restrained nation to his feet. Poland tried putting weight on his right leg and winced, blood steadily pouring from the gunshot. "Why'd you shoot him, Vovka?"

"He attacked an officer and ran," Vasnetsov replied stubbornly. "He's lucky I didn't kill him."

_That would have been hard to explain when it failed._

"Fuck. I'll call a car then; he won't make the walk back to the station," the second officer said, ducking into the nearest store to borrow their phone.

"Can't believe this stupid shit," Vasnetsov grumbled, shifting. "You! Sit your ass down!" he commanded loudly, nodding to Poland. The blonde gave him a blank look and the lieutenant swore again. "Tell him."

"_Feliks, come on_," Liet said.

Poland gingerly sat, biting his lip against the pain. "_Fucking assholes're lucky I'm not normal; a regular person would be way worse off_," he muttered darkly, helpless to staunch the bleeding with his hands cuffed.

The officer returned a moment later with a mess of rags, tying up the gunshot wound. "Car'll be here in five," he remarked, wiping the blood off his hands as he stood.

"He's going to bleed all over the seat," Vasnetsov complained. Liet shut his mouth tightly against the bitterness that threatened to leak out.

A black government car arrived; the two countries were stuck in the back, Poland careful to let the blood-soaked cloth rest on the seat. Lithuania just shook his head, watching the city pass by. They were so screwed. There was no reason for the police to call Russia this time; a brawl in the street had nothing to do with him. They were legitimately going to jail, at least until Russia noticed their absence and managed to find them. He leaned his head against the window. Damn it…

The older officer from last time was still doing paperwork when they walked in. "You again!" he said, surprised. "I thought we went through this already."

"Found this two idiots fighting in the street, Popov," Vasnetsov announced.

Poland blinked in confusion and asked, "_What does he mean, again?"_

"_I got arrested last month, when you were in solitary con—" _Whack!

"If you're not going to translate then don't talk," the lieutenant growled, adding for his commander, "And the blonde doesn't speak Russian."

Popov groaned, rubbing tired eyes. "Great. Well, you know the drill," he said to Liet. "Papers."

"Right pocket," the Baltic said quickly as Vasnetsov started patting him down. The booklet was extracted and handed over; next to him, Poland swore and tried to jerk away as his officer tried to find the same.

"Ask him where his documentation is," the senior officer requested, copying down Liet's information.

"_Feliks, just let them," _Lithuania tried.

Poland went very still, eyes darting around the room, searching for a way out.

"_Please, don't make this any worse."_

The blonde closed his eyes briefly and took a breath. "_Left breast pocket," _he muttered.

Lithuania felt his heart stop. Oh god…

"Well, what'd he say?"

"L- Left breast pocket," Liet repeated. Shit, they were so screwed.

The officer holding Poland pulled the booklet out of said pocket, a scrap of paper falling loose and fluttering to the floor. Vasnetsov bent and picked it up, glancing at it; his eyes widen as they flitted across the words. Lithuania stared at the floor.

"The hell is this?"

Oh yeah. If they weren't completely fucked before, they sure as hell were now.

Vasnetsov wordlessly thrust the poem towards his commander, whose expression darkened upon reading it. "Where did you get this?" he demanded quietly.

"Nie mówię po rosyjs—" Poland started to say but the lieutenant grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward.

"Bullshit you don't speak Russian! Why would you be carrying _that_ in Russian!" he snapped. "Who'd you get that from?"

"Fuck you," Poland quipped in their language. Vasnetsov decked him and the blonde crashed to the floor, unable to catch his weight on his injured leg. The officer moved as if to kick him but his superior barked a sharp "Nyet! We have a system for a reason."

Vasnetsov backed down, glaring, as Poland was hauled back to his feet, eyes defiant. "Yes, sir," he saluted, before taking hold of Liet and marching him toward the door to the back.

"Wait!" Liet called over his shoulder to Popov. "Can I use the phone?"

The man gave him an incredulous look. "No," he stated, his tone of voice wondering if the boy was stupid.

"Tovarishch Bragniski needs to know I'm here—"

"He'd have to be crazy to come to your defense this time." Vasnetsov pushed him forward through the door, leading him down the hall.

The Baltic dug in his heels in vain. "He _won't_—" Russia was going to _destroy _him for this disaster. "—he just needs to know I'm here!"

"Worry about yourself."

"But my family! He'll hurt them when I don't come back!" And Liet knew it was true, that Russia would turn to Estonia and Latvia, convinced they knew something, interrogate them until he decided that maybe they really didn't know anything after all, smile and shrug, oh well, and in the meantime they'd be bruised and bleeding and—

"Papers say you're not married," his guard replied, leading him down the stairs. Behind them, Liet could hear Poland wince as he struggled to take the steps despite his injury.

"Brothers, I have two brothers; _please_, just a single call, he needs to know!"

"Kid, you are seriously trying my patience," Vasnetsov growled, wrenching open a cell door and shoving the unfortunate nation inside.

"Wait, where's Feliks?" he asked, the other nation gone. When had they split up?

"We're going to have a little chat with your friend," the lieutenant answered as he locked up the cell. "See if we can't clear up a few things." He smirked, anticipation coloring his features an ugly shade as he walked out.

Lithuania felt anxiety, slick and heavy, slip into his stomach and curled there.

He ignored the questions and jeers from his two other cellmates—"Who are you?" "Ho, your friend there's in for it now! Vovka doesn't play nice…" "What did they snag you for?" "You know how fast they ship you here? Two, three days tops, then whoosh! Off to Siberia with you!"—and concentrated on not panicking. It mostly worked in that he didn't pass out or throw up or hyperventilate, but his lip was practically chewed raw by the time they finally brought Poland back, what felt like hours later.

The rest of the cell stood out of the way, unwilling to get closer to the guards, but Lithuania ran directly to their side as they dragged the barely conscious blonde into the tiny space. The boy's face was trashed, eye swollen shut, lips split, nose probably broken, a mess of blood and snot and tears; before Liet could even reach him to help, do _something_, one of the guards seized him by the arm and hauled him bodily from the cell.

"Wha- where are we going?"

The police officer gave no response, leading him down the hall and past the stairs, to a bare cement room with no windows, just a table and two chairs, some sort of recording deceive. And Vasnetsov, leaning again the back wall. He smiled upon seeing the pale country, no hint of kindness present.

"So Lorinaitis, let's see if we can't settle a few questions," he remarked casually as the guard forcibly sat Lithuania down, then retreated from the room, closing the door behind them. Liet wetted his lips, hands clenched tightly in his lap as he waited for Vasnetsov to continue. The best thing a police officer could hope for was getting a suspect to _talk_, even if they weren't answering the question, because they were likely to slip important or incriminating information if they were talking. Still, this could go very badly no matter what he tried; Vasnetsov might be in the public branch of the NKVD, but he probably had contacts among the secret police. Hell, he might have even received similar training. Liet tried not to dwell on what exactly that training could have entailed, push those less than comforting thoughts away to concentrate on what the officer was saying.

"—supposedly work for this Tovarishch Bragniski, yet you parade around Moscow with anti-Soviet trash!"

Was he referring to the poem or Poland?

"You must think you're pretty clever, hiding your conspiracy right under your boss's nose—"

"I'm not a conspirator, sir," Liet interrupted quietly, somewhat surprised at how calm he was. This man was no Russia.

"Nyet? Your friend said you were anti-Soviet." He pushed off from the wall and stood at the table, looming over the brunette. "That given half a chance, you'd gladly lead your people in a revolt—"

Poland wouldn't have said that. Poland could have said that.

"Who are 'your people', hm?"

"I- I don't know." How many of his people had fallen in with the Soviets already?

"So you have people then."

Damn it. "I'm not plotting a revolt, sir."

"I bet your friend is," Vasnetsov said, the statement sounding like a question.

If he disagreed, was it too obvious a lie? But he had to— "He's all talk. Says things and never does," Liet tried, forcing casual into his voice.

A quirked brow. "What sort of things?"

Shit. "Anything. Oh, I'll meet you for dinner; doesn't show. I'll pick up butter from the store; comes home empty-handed." He was trying too hard, he just knew it.

"Where did he get the poem?" the lieutenant demanded abruptly.

_He's running out of patience_ Lithuania thought fearfully. "I don't know."

"I don't believe you. I think you know _exactly_ where he got it from. I bet you could even give me _names_," Vasnetsov pressed.

"I don't know, sir," the Baltic insisted. Why did he _care?_ One name and he could spare himself so much difficulty—

"Bullshit! Tell me where he got the poem!"

Because Poland would never forgive him. "I don't know!" Because he wanted this small rebellion against Russia. Because he was a good person.

Vasnetsov was around the table in an instant; he grabbed Lithuania by the collar, yanking him to his feet, their faces inches apart. "I know you know," he said, garlic breath threatening to wrinkle Liet's nose. "You better starting remembering."

Lithuania started to repeat himself and a slap reddened his cheek. "You make an awful liar, kid."

"I- I don't know—" Don't stutter! He could do this; Russia was so much worse.

The officer's eyes searched his for a heartbeat before a sliver of a smile twisted his face. "I wonder if your brothers know."

A flash of horror he didn't stop in time; Vasnetsov shoved him back into his seat with a grin. "Yeah, there's an idea. Why don't we ask your brothers?" he said in a sickly pleasant tone. "We have your address right here— I'll just send someone by to pick them up and then I'm sure we can sort this whole mess out."

Lithuania forced his mind to function, driving down the involuntary panic—the NKVD'll get them! We're going to wind up in Siberia!—to _think_; they were at the house, wait, Russia was _home_— "No, please!"

"You remembered?" Vasnetsov queried, pausing at the door.

He hesitated, wondering if... "I- I told you, I don't know," he lied, his voice wavering. _Send someone to the house; Russia will hear_—

Vasnetsov muttered something to the guard and turned back. "We'll ask your brothers then," he said with a nod, as if they had agreed. _Thank god._ "In the meantime, maybe I can help refresh your memory…"

Lithuania paled.

The guards unceremoniously dumped him on the floor of the cell; his head against the concrete was almost enough to make him blackout, but he had to stay conscious, had to see if Poland was okay. He cracked his eyes open, slowly pushed himself off the ground to a sitting position. Nothing was broken, just bruised, a lot of bruises; he swallowed blood and made a face, the metallic taste turning his stomach. He hoped he didn't throw up.

"_Who do you think looks worse?"_

Poland was propped against the back wall, a crooked smile distorting his battered features even further.

A giggle escaped Lithuania, then a chuckle; he laughed, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he had no idea why, he couldn't stop. The hysterics quickly morphed into anguished sobs and he cried, curling in on himself, his whole body shaking until there was nothing left, an occasional hiccup.

The cells were silent, Poland watching him with a look of sad understanding.

One of the other men broke the silence. "You're new to this, aren't you?"

"No," Lithuania sniffed miserably, wiping away the tear trails and wincing as he nudged a black eye. "No, I'm not, and that's why it's so fucked up." He fished through his pockets and pulled out a kerchief, dabbing at his mouth and nose, the white clothe rapidly turning red. Scooting over to Poland, grimacing from the pain, he tried to tidy up the other nation but found that the blood was too dried to do anything without water.

"_Guess you'll just have to wait, unless you don't mind spit_," he muttered.

Poland laughed feebly. "_Gross, Toris_…"

The door banged open and they jumped; Russia stormed in—Liet didn't think he'd ever been this relieved to see him—silent fury crackling across his rigid posture, and Vasnetsov followed right on his heels, complaining the entire way.

"—_cannot_ waltz in here and remove people suspected of conspiracy! This is completely outside your jurisdiction—"

Russia whirled on the lieutenant, scarf a bright contrast to his black uniform. "I am entirely within my authority to take these two into my custody—"

"With all due respect sir, I must insist that they remain here until—"

"Do not," Russia growled, "force me to phone the Kremlin to prove my legitimacy."

Vasnetsov seemed to collapse into himself for a moment before drawing himself up to his full height, a few centimeters shy of the taller man. "Until I receive orders from one of my direct superiors, I stand by police protocol—"

"Is Tovarishch_ Stalin_ enough of a 'direct superior' for you?" the arctic country asked softly.

"O- Of course, but—"

"I'll have you court marshaled," Russia continued quietly. "Unlock this cell before I have you arrested for interfering with top governmental affairs in direct opposition to a superior officer—Siberia will be a god-send to someone in your position."

Vasnetsov mouthed soundlessly at him for a moment, before he swallowed and unlocked the cell.

"Get up," Russia ordered, the tone that of commanding dogs.

Lithuania obediently climbed to his feet and helped Poland to his; Russia gave them a calculating once-over before instructing the lieutenant to call a car for them. His violet eyes locked with Liet's, pinning him there for an instant—his mask was on, all the Batlic could see was carefully controlled fury, disgust, something else, darker, lurking below the surface—then he glanced away, apparently disinterested.

Silence while they waited for the car, silence all the way back to the house, silence as they stripped out of their boots and coats at the door. Then Russia gently took Poland by the arm and led him to the stairs, going slowly to compensate for the limp; the blonde offered no resistance, as if he knew that he couldn't fight in his condition.

Lithuania bit his already abused lip. "R- Russia Zimavich—"

The huge nation froze, everyone did, including Estonia and Latvia, warily out of range down the hall, watching; Russia released Poland and stepped right up to Liet, towering over him, a finger looped under his chin to tilt his face up.

"Litva," Russia said patiently. "If you say another word, I will tie you down—"

Nausea slammed into Liet with all the force of a gunshot.

"—and make you watch as I whip your brothers to Death's door and leave them there."

Lithuania couldn't have said anything if he wanted to.

Russia smiled, a sad, tired look, before bringing Poland upstairs and out of sight.

Liet remained at the door, the blonde's look of resignation lingering in his mind. _Move_, the Baltic told himself, _move_. He lurched forward past his brothers, going to the kitchen, out the back door into the yard, past the spot where he and his brothers had been 'executed' only a few months before—had it been so long?—to the chicken coop, where he shut himself in among the feathers and hay. Between the offended squawking and his hands over his ears, Lithuania could hear only his heart as back in the house, Russia calmly explained to Poland exactly why what he did was a very bad idea.

Perhaps an hour later, the door to the coop opened. Lithuania didn't move from his place against the back wall, silent as Russia ducked through the doorway, stooping to fit under the low roof. He paid Liet no attention as he automatically glanced into the nest boxes for eggs; with his uniform gone in exchange for dark pants and a peasant's loose shirt, he looked rustic and unassuming, nothing like the commanding officer that threatened a subordinate only a short time before. Finding no eggs, he surveyed the chickens for a moment, hens clucking amiably at his feet. He lunged abruptly—Liet flinched—and when he straightened there was a chicken in his arms, the lowest of the flock according the bald patch near its tail. Russia tucked the bird against his chest, stroking the glossy feathers as he murmured serenity, scratching the unreachable pin feathers around the neck. The hen cooed peacefully; a ghost of a smile curved Russia's lips, pleased and sad, before he broke its neck cleanly. The other chickens milled about contentedly, unfazed by the sudden loss.

Lithuania closed his eyes briefly. _Yes, you've proved your point_…

Hay crunched, a hand gripped his arm firmly and pulled him to his feet; Russia led him out of the coop and he went easily, gaze caught on the limp hen swinging loosely from the arctic nation's other hand. It was handed off to Latvia as they stepped into the kitchen—"Dinner," he said simply as the timid nation hugged the bird tightly. Then upstairs and Lithuania set his jaw, knowing what was ahead; but instead Russia pushed him into the bathroom, ordered him to wash up and waited, watching, until Liet had gingerly scrubbed the blood off his face, then walked him to the Baltic's own room. Two steps inside Russia pulled the shorter nation flush against him and forced his face up, kissing him deeply, a strong arm wrapped around his waist to keep him there.

Eyes wide, Liet rode it out unresisting, standing rigidly within the man's embrace, cold sinking in through his shirt from icy fingertips. Russia broke off for a breath; Liet looked away, staring resolutely at anything else but the country before him. The arctic nation held on a moment longer, uncertain, then kissed the top of his hair and left.

A key scrapped in the lock.

There was something heavy weighing him down on the inside, an odd numbness that kept him standing there listlessly for nearly twenty minutes before he managed to drag his leaden body to bed and lie down. He wasn't sure from where the feeling came, whether it leeched into him from Russia like a last frost killing new-born blossoms, or grew up from within like a tumor, stealing precious space better suited to other things. Either way, it forced his thoughts towards a dark detachment; he wanted to curl up under his sheets, go to sleep and wake up when this mess was done with… It was a familiar sensation, something he had known before, but it had never been this bad.

He was just so exhausted.

* * *

Vocab: (Heh, now the vocab's all Polish)

Drugi obieg: second circulation. The Russian term is samizdat (self-publication), but both refer to the practice of reproducing censored material and distributing it among readers. A good form of resistance, but like most (if not all) resistance, samizdat is very dangerous in that you could get into a lot of trouble if caught with, or worse, _distributing_ censored materials (you saw what happened to Poland with the American magazine, and now with the poem. He's very lucky Russia is who he is and can get them out of jail.)

Nie mówię po rosyjsku: I don't speak Russian. For me personally, Nie mówię po polsku makes more sense. ^^;

Mikhail Bulgakov, Boris Pilnyak, and Osip Mandelstam are all Russian poets (although Mandelstam is Jewish Russian originally born in Warsaw. I can't decide if Poland would be proud or not.) who were executed during the Purges or otherwise severely messed up up Stalin's government. If you are so inclined, their works are fairly awesome.

The NKVD (Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del, People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs) was the public and secret police force of the time, the direct precursor to the KGB. Yeah, _that's_ what Liet and Poland are dealing with...

You know, a few chapters ago I thought I would have 15 chapters and be done, but I keep realizing new parts that I want to share, so my chapters keep getting longer. I actually have the last chapter/scene already written, I just need to get the rest of the story caught up to it. ^^;

Read and review, comrades!


	16. Solitude

Hell, this chapter's fairly long. Teaching and actually being social for once has slowed my writing time a bit, but it's not a problem. Enjoy!

* * *

He woke up slowly the next morning, staring at the ceiling; a lingering dream, a little boy crying blood in the snow, left him uneasy. Frowning, trying to remember the rest, he dressed mechanically and then nearly walked into the door when it didn't immediately open. He blinked in confusion and rattled the doorknob twice before his brain kicked in.

Russia had locked his door the other day. Obviously he hadn't unlocked it yet.

Liet sighed. Well, apparently his brothers were going to make breakfast today. At the thought of food his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch. A part of him bet that Russia was doing this on purpose, though Lithuania was loath to give him credit for such irritatingly accurate foresight. Strange; after last night, he felt surprisingly neutral. The benefits of sleep, no matter how restless, he supposed.

He considered the door again. Theoretically, he could break it down. And theoretically Russia would beat him and then make him fix the door. At a loss over what to do with himself, he grabbed a random title off the bookshelf and flipped to somewhere in the middle. The bright pictures with little text threw him; confused, he checked the title. A collection of short stories for children? Russia had honestly stocked his bookshelf with _children's books_?

Definitely on purpose.

He glanced through _The Parade of the Red Army_ and _The First of May,_ _Kol'ka and Lenin, October Songs,_ and _In Former Days and Now_—not only were they children's books, they were children's books full of communist propaganda. Great. The blithely smiling faces that stared up at him from the picture books were faintly horrifying, if only because he knew the reality of the situation. He wondered how many of the children reading these books would grow up and be crushed by the truth and how many would believe the stories…

He jumped when the door was unlocked.

"You have five minutes to use the bathroom," Russia stated without any preamble. "Go."

Lithuania practically ran; he could tell when the huge nation was being literal. He dragged a comb through his hair and splashed water on his face, did his business—face scarlet—while Russia waited in the doorway. What did he expect him to do? Try to escape out the window? He didn't have anywhere to go. _Not that it would stop Poland_. When five minutes was up (and it was five minutes exactly, Liet saw Russia check his wristwatch), he was brought back to his room and given breakfast. Russia locked the door when he left.

Realization struck him. He was in solitary confinement, wasn't he?

At lunch Russia returned, replacing the remains of the previous meal with a new one. And shortly after lunch Liet discovered the biggest drawback to being locked in his room.

"Russia Zimavich," he called, knocking on his door. Silence, no response. Louder: "Russia Zimavich!" God damn it… He pounded a fist into the door. "Russia Zimavich! Please let me out, I— I need to use the bathroom!"

From the hallway, "Lithuania—"

"Estonia? Where's Russia?"

"He's not here."

_You've got to be joking…_ "Do you have a key?"

"No—"

He scowled, impatience getting the better of him. "I swear to god, Estonia, if you have a key—"

"Just Poland's," came the quick reply.

Liet's head thunked into the door and rested there. "How long am I in here?" he asked, deflated.

"He, he didn't say…"

His eyes shut. "How are you and Lativa doing?"

"Fine. Listen, Lithuania, I can't really stay—"

He pulled back, brow knitted. "But I thought you said Russia wasn't here?"

"H- He isn't, but…"

But the house is still bugged. Right. "It's fine, I understand," Liet said, placing a hand on the door. "Look out for Latvia."

"Of course." And then silence.

Lithuania paced around his room, sitting, standing; Russia returned around seven in the evening, giving the Baltic another five minute trip to the bathroom, and this time Liet literally did run. _This is ridiculous_ he thought as he was escorted back to his room. The arctic blond handed him dinner and he knew he shouldn't ask, but…

"R- Russia Zimavich." The nation paused at the threshold, lunch tray in one hand, the other on the doorknob.

Liet swallowed. " How… how long am I in solitary confinement?"

Violet eyes searched his face for something, and Russia left without a word, a now-familiar key sound in the lock.

Lithuania sighed and ate his meal.

A day past in the same manner, then another. Boredom rapidly became his biggest problem. He quickly used all the available paper at his desk sketching: he drew pictures of home, the hills and forests, grazing horses, picturesque villages… A map of his territory, the borders precise, each county labeled by coat of arms alone… He muttered aloud the names of every settlement within his borders, in alphabetical order, and when he had finished with the current ones, he began recalling older towns that no longer existed on any map, homage to the past. On the third day he read through the children's books in spite of the content. Anything to keep himself busy, to keep himself distracted, because with so much time to think, he thought about all the wrong things.

Like how his brothers were doing without him. How Russia was treating them. He worried about Latvia especially; with only two countries on which to focus, Latvia was far more likely to become a target, and his habit of speaking the instant a thought came to mind would get him hurt.

And he thought about Poland. He wondered how much he had healed by now—Liet's own injuries were completely gone—and he hoped that the loud-mouthed blond wasn't making his situation worse with ill-timed comments. Or actions. Or anything, really; they never knew what to expect with Russia. Little things that weren't necessarily a problem in the 'real world'—like accidentally knocking over a glass, or not greeting someone fast enough—could have disastrous consequences when Russia was factored into the mix.

But the thoughts Liet kept coming back to were about himself. How he could never do anything. No, how he _could_ do something, and never did. How he _could_ sneak out the window if he really wanted to—didn't Poland? How he _could_ stand up against Russia and didn't. He wondered what was going to happen in the future—if, when Germany and Russia went to war, what that would mean for him? He and his brothers stood in a nice little line between Germany and Russia; Germany was _bound_ to invade them. But his goal was Russia. He wouldn't try to take them over, right?

And the silence was deafening. When Poland said that he had sung patriotic songs Liet just thought he was being rebellious again. But now he realized that was only a nice side-effect; he probably did it to counter the boredom and quiet. Liet had only himself to talk to; neither Estonia nor Latvia dared risk the consequences, and Russia wasn't saying anything in the brief moments Lithuania saw him for meals. On the fifth day Lithuania actually tried to talk to him beyond the expected 'Hello Russia Zimavich', but when the arctic nation didn't respond, Liet realized that he was succumbing to the stress of isolation, trying to communicate with anyone, including his captor. And Russia's refusal to acknowledge him only served to solidify his solitude further.

Sixth day, the first of June. Seven days in, Russia allow him to stay in the bathroom long enough to wash, still lingering in the doorway. Liet could feel his eyes on him as he bathed and felt sick. Eight days. Nine. He started having nightmares—he screamed until his throat was raw and bleeding, no one answered; Belarus agreed to marry him but turned him over to Russia at the last second; Poland and his brothers were slowly killed in front of him. Sleep ceased to be a refuge on which he could rely, but the ennui of the day was mind-numbing.

And no one said a word to him.

Ten, eleven, on the twelfth day Russia didn't appear at all, not even when Lithuania pounded on the door and shouted himself hoarse. Where were Estonia and Latvia? Couldn't _they_ at least hear him? His stomach complained angrily, but the lack of bathroom access was the bigger challenge. Liet stood at the window and gauged the distance to the ground. There was no real way to climb down—Poland was blessed with a tree not far from his window—and jumping was just not a good plan. Aside from the broken ankle that would be a very likely result, he wouldn't be able to get back into the room, either from the hall or the window.

And Lithuania froze. Get back into his room? He would put _himself_ back into solitary confinement to avoid infuriating Russia? God, what was _wrong _with him?

He threw the window open and swung his legs over the side to sit on the edge, trying to figure out the best way to get down. And hesitated. Thought of Poland scrambling down from his window, coded letters in hand to send to his exiled government, and scooted a little farther forward, feet dangling in empty space. He bit his lip.

"Damn it," he muttered, climbing back into the room. After a furtive glance at the neighboring houses, he did his business out the window, feeling like a cretin, and then buried himself under his sheets and listened to his stomach grumble.

Past sunset he heard footsteps down the hall; he sat bolt upright, listening, hoping.

Russia went passed his room without so much as a pause.

A disbelieving sound tore its way out of his throat. Lithuania wrenched the blankets off and slid out of bed, storming up to the door and pounding his fist into it.

"Russia Zimavich!" and he knew he sounded angry and that was such a bad idea but he couldn't keep it out of his voice. "Russia Zimavich, please open the door! I need to use the bathroom! Open the door! Russia Zimavich, _please_, open the door! I know you haven't forgotten about me; you couldn't have! Estonia, Lativa! Please, someone let me out! Let me out!" And by the end the anger had morphed into tears.

And there was no answer.

"Fuck!" He kicked the door hard, which accomplished nothing more than hurting his foot. He sat heavily on the floor, teeth clenched against the sound and his throat ached; he was furious and upset and what the hell?

Pointless.

He forced his breathing to even out, pressing the heel of his palms to his eyes, holding his head. He had to get out of this solitary confinement; he was starting to act stupid. He knew that was the entire point of solitary confinement, it was designed to break people, but knowing that didn't mean necessarily help him. And he knew; the small fit he just had—not a good sign. And he desperately didn't want Russia to win this one. He didn't know what would happen if he lost. The idea terrified him.

Green eyes full of pain and betrayal froze forever locked with his own and Liet wasn't screaming, just a high keening sound that he knew he had heard before, somewhere, and Russia gently closed Estonia's eyes before turning to him, blood-stained hands reaching, grabbing him by the shoulders and he fought, he tried to get away, lashed out in desperation—

And clipped Russia smartly across the mouth. Fury flashed across his face; the huge nation released a shoulder and slapped Lithuania hard enough for the Baltic to realize that he wasn't dreaming, that Russia was in his room and standing over him, holding him to the bed and he panicked, terror still fresh in his mind.

"No, god, please, stop it Russia, stop it, _please_—" All in his own language, he was crying and Russia wasn't letting go, struggling to keeping the thrashing nation pinned, hands on his wrists, mouth set in a grim line.

"Please, please, stop it, let me go, please let me go, I want to go home. I want to go home…" Sobbing, Liet subsided gradually, the strength to fight deserting him. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and trickled down his temples into his hair.

Russia held his pleading gaze impassively, apparently content to hold him there and wait; Lithuania didn't move, a part of him realizing Russia had him pinned to his _bed_ and the sick feeling that turned his stomach was enough to keep him focused, to let him push away the pure terror of his visions and concentrate on the far more immediate fear of, dear god, he's pinned me to my _bed_.

But Russia didn't do anything, just waited a few heartbeats more to see if Lithuania was going to start panicking again. When no further response was to be had, he let go and straightened up, going to the door—

Liet bolted upright. "Russia Zimavich!"

—and leaving, the key turning in the lock behind him.

The Baltic stared for a moment, then slumped where he sat. He had done it again, before he even realized, before he could stop himself—tried to communicate with his captor. The silence was deafening, he hadn't known how much he'd miss Poland's chatter until it was gone, until everything was gone, and…

The solitude, the silence; it made him feel like he didn't exist.

Thirteenth day. There was an anxiety slowly growing within him, a steadily increasing pressure that made him want to run and hide. The keen sense of _I am not safe_ that had lurked in the back of his mind since moving back in with Russia was sharp and _there_, all of a sudden again, as if it hadn't already been nearly a year—a _year, _the thought was staggering—and he had no idea _why_.

Fourteenth day—two weeks.

The anxiety was still there, strong and suffocating. Waiting for the door to be unlocked; Russia, emotionless and distant; five minutes in the bathroom; locked back in the room. No contact, no real communication; Russia had long since ceased giving verbal cues, once Liet understood the pattern. Estonia and Latvia were nowhere to be seen; Liet suspected they wouldn't have said anything anyways. He had read everything on the bookshelf thrice, and wondered if the propaganda wouldn't be slowly absorbed through continued exposure.

He had stopped responding properly when Russia came with lunch, saying hello only, barely looking at him. Trying to get Russia to answer was a hopeless endeavor for which he didn't have the energy.

Repeat the morning pattern in the evening. Another week had passed; he was permitted a bath. A week was a disgusting amount of time to go without bathing; he didn't care that Russia waited in the doorway, watching, he scrubbed himself raw and soaked in the hot water as long as he could before the huge nation became bored and demanded that he finish. Later Liet tried desperately to fall asleep, knowing that the dreams would be awful and not caring, just wanting any escape from the monotony of day.

Fifteenth day. Same morning trip, lunch, then dinner. To the bathroom and back, and when he stepped back into his room he heard Russia step in behind him, the click of the door shutting, and he turned quickly, fear flooding through him; the twinge of hope was confusing.

"You will behave, Litva, da?" Russia asked simply, his voice newly familiar after so much time, thunderously loud compared to the earlier quiet.

Lithuania searched his face for a clue and didn't find one. It was a loaded question, and it wasn't rhetorical. And it was the longest sentence he had heard in two weeks.

"D- Da," he said quietly, shoulder hunched, hoping, maybe his confinement would be finished?

"Xorasho."

Liet saw Russia tense but couldn't move fast enough; the huge nation caught him by the shoulders and spun, slamming the Baltic into the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Liet tried to take a breath, but Russia forced his face upwards and kissed him greedily, vodka on his tongue. A hand slid up the back of his shirt, ice across smooth skin and Liet gasped, arching away from the cold touch, into the arctic nation. A low, deep sound escaped Russia and he leaned forward, pressing the smaller nation against the wall. He wedged a knee between Liet's legs and the boy squeaked in surprise, the noise getting lost in Russia's mouth; his hands scrambled for purchase across the man's broad chest and didn't find any. Liet jerked his head away, breaking off the one-sided kiss, and barely had time to gasp, "Russia, _stop_—" before said nation leaned down further and bit him, hard, on the soft sweep of his shoulder near his neck. A jolt of warmth shot all the way down to Liet's toes as he gasped and the sensation, his _reaction_, scared him so badly that he managed to throw Russia's balance when he shoved him.

Russia steadied quickly but didn't immediately come back, remaining an easy three feet away. Head cocked slightly to the side, he studied the trembling Baltic curiously, his short too-quick breaths, the bright green eyes widened in terror, a deer-in-the-highlights look, posed ready to run and unable to move. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"You said you would behave, Litva," he remarked, and Lithuania heard something suspiciously like amusement in his voice.

_What? _"No, I; not for— I thought, I thought you meant—" He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "I thought you meant, t- to end my solitary confinement…"

Russia held his gaze. "And I am not?" he asked simply.

The hair on the back of his neck rose; Lithuania understood. No. _No,_ that was _not_ the condition for his release! He let out a shaky laugh just this side of hysterical. "R- Russia, I…" The words died, choked by a lump in his throat.

Russia closed the distance again, movements slow as if he could avoid startling a frightened animal; he cupped Liet's face in his hand and ran a thumb across his cheek, over his lower lip. Liet shook visibly, staring resolutely at the embroidery along the collar of Russia's shirt; tears pricked at his eyes, his gaze sliding to the side when Russia tilted his face upwards.

A pause. "You're beautiful, Litva…"

He choked on a sob. If he resisted, what would happen? Would Russia just become violent and he'd wind up losing anyway? Was it even possible for Russia to back down at this point? Was it even possible for Liet to resist?

_Commodity erosion_, Lithuania thought numbly, the economic phrase drifting into his head as Russia carefully unfastened the buttons of his shirt. When there simply weren't enough resources to go around. People began to use favors as currency—he shuddered as the shirt was slipped off his shoulders; it crumpled to the floor soundlessly—services became the common means of acquiring things, be it food or objects or other favors. That's what was happening here, he decided blankly, as a single fingertip ran down his torso from his sternum to the hem of his pants, and across to settle possessively on the curve of his waist. Russia had all the resources, all the options; Liet and his brothers were forced to bargain with whatever they could, cooking, cleaning, or—

Russia kissed him again; Liet shut his eyes, his fingers curling in the sleeves of Russia's officer's coat, shaking. Commodity erosion. He could endure this. He would endure this. He had to. He needed to. The kiss stopped; Russia shifted his attention to the pale skin of Liet's neck, trailing his lips to the ridge of the collarbone. His arm circled around the boy's waist and held him flush against his chest. A gentle nip and Liet's breathing hitched as his eyes fluttered open, grip twitching tighter, hyper sensitive to the slightest touch: chilled fingers tracing along his lower back; hot breath washing over his neck and hair; soft feather kisses along the edge of his jaw. A whimper twisted up in his throat; he felt Russia smile, face buried in brunette hair.

"Litva," he murmured, lips just brushing his ear.

Liet flinched, ducking slightly; he rested his forehead on Russia's shoulder, eyes unseeing, hating himself. He should fight. He should haul off and deck Russia, send the message that he wasn't just going to roll over and play dead. And yet he didn't, _letting _Russia run his hands over his body—was this really the only way to buy his freedom?

Abruptly Russia crouched, looping his arms around Liet's upper legs and lifting him easily; the sudden vertigo caught Lithuania off-guard and he threw his arms around Russia's neck to catch himself. Russia stepped forward, pressing Liet against the wall, a leg to either side of the huge nation and Liet squirmed, flushing a deep scarlet.

"Russia—" Palms flat against the man's broad shoulders, trying to push him back in vain. "S- stop it—"

Russia tried to shrug off his hands and decided it didn't matter, leaning forward to flick his tongue against the dip between collarbones; Liet sucked in a sharp breath, held it deep in his lungs. The arctic nation placed a tender kiss just below the first, then above, up his neck, and Lithuania leaned his head back so Russia couldn't get to his lips. But that wasn't his goal; Russia found his pulse, racing wildly, and nudged his nose into it playfully, then bit down, hard. "Ah!" Liet gasped in shock and pain and something else, shoved ineffectually at Russia as the bite morphed into a deep kiss. A slight shift, and a hand crept along the back of Liet's pants and hooked there, tugging—

"No!" Lithuania shouted, panicked, throwing his weight towards the wall, leverage; Russia staggered, taking the Baltic backwards with him. The wall's support dropped away; Liet lurched forward to counterbalance and caught a glimpse of the startled expression on Russia's face before they both smashed into the ground, Liet's full weight slamming into the huge nation at the diaphragm. An odd croaking grunt lurched out of him; Liet rolled off, scrambling to stand, a pleased and spiteful _serves you fucking right_ shooting through the haze of terror. A hand closed around his ankle; Lithuania crashed to the floor, catching himself hard on his wrists and wincing. A sharp yank dragged him backwards; Russia swung a leg over him, his weight settling across Liet's lower back. He caught a wrist and twisted, bending the arm back and up far enough that Lithuania stilled for fear of hurting himself, cheek and chest against the cool wooden floor, heart pounding.

"Litva…" Russia growled, his voice strained, breathing a little sharp. He twitched Liet's arm up a fraction higher. "You said you would behave." Higher yet and Liet grimaced, gritting his teeth. "I am thinking that you lied." A millimeter more—

"Ah, please—" Lithuania shifted, trying to lessen the pressure and failing. "Please, I didn't lie; I'll behave!" Just as the pressure began to lessen, "B- But not, not for that," he managed, cringing at his own words.

Nothing. Then Russia leaned forward, bearing down on the trapped arm. "Conditions? You dare to set conditions?"

"Yes," Liet gasped through the pain. "For this, yes."

Russia jerked his head back roughly by a fist-full of hair, then slammed his face into the floor. Light exploded behind Liet's eyes, white and hot; he moaned, trying to blink away the stars as Russia pulled his head back again.

"Conditions are set by the victors, Litva," he hissed, inches away from Liet's ear. The brunette felt something wet and warm trickle down over his lips. "Between us, there is no contest."

He couldn't see straight. "Ru- Russia…" The name slid out like a tortured plea.

The grip in his hair spasmed tighter. "And you _know_ this, don't you?" his tone lightened at the end, daring him to disagree.

"Da…"

Russia released him and his head knocked back into the floor before he could catch himself; the weight left as Russia stood. Liet groaned as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees, head still spinning, his eyes fixating on a drop of blood that splattered to the floor beneath him. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and nose, it came away streaked with red.

A kick caught him clean in the ribs; he crashed to the side with a yelp of pain and before he could curl up protectively the heel of Russia's boot landed hard on his shoulder, forcing him flat on his back. He stared up mutely, the huge nation looming above him expressionlessly—he wasn't going to win this. He just wasn't. Russia had already passed the point of potential reasoning, and well into violence. Lithuania had only two options left, and neither were terribly appealing: stop struggling—and the likely result of that was obvious—or fight, and get the stuffing beaten out of him.

Poland would fight. Hell, Poland would have never let Russia get as far as he did. Poland would also probably have been beaten unconscious five minutes ago and left to bleed.

He flinched when Russia knelt down next to him, the fabric of his coat swishing along Liet's bare chest and making him shiver. He raised a hand—Liet flinched again—and rested it, ever so softly, over the boy's heart. Goose bumps erupted across Liet's pale skin from the cold and his pulse raced, drumming out a rhythm of fear against his ribcage—he knew Russia could feel it.

"Are you certain, Litva?" the arctic nation pressed gently, sounding genuinely concerned. "That there is no contest between us? No doubt? Because if you are uncertain, I am sure I could convince you otherwise."

Liet worked his mouth soundlessly for a moment before he found the words. "D- da, Russia Zimavich," he whispered. Maybe, maybe this situation could be salvaged yet.

"You are certain you are not confused? I did hit you rather hard…" The corner of his lips quirked upwards sheepishly.

_You smashed my face into the floor; 'hard' is an understatement_. "Da; I- I understand…" And Russia was technically correct this time; in his current state, Lithuania would lose every time.

Russia smiled, soft and sweet. "Xorasho." He leaned over; Liet shut his eyes and felt him leave a kiss on his forehead. He opened them in time for Russia to kiss him properly; when he drew back, he licked blood off his lips. Liet couldn't suppress the shiver.

The huge nation looped an arm under the back of Liet's neck and his knees, picking him off the ground; Liet held on only because he didn't want to fall again, and he half-expected Russia to drop him out of spite.

Russia managed to get the door open one-handed, carrying the Baltic down the blessedly empty hall and Liet's fingers dug into Russia's shoulders as the taller nation brought them into his own bedroom, depositing Lithuania on the soft bed. Liet immediately scooted to the opposite side; Russia didn't seem to notice, saying that he had just a little more work to do for the night, he'd be in his office for a few minutes yet. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

It didn't lock.

Lithuania stared. This was a trap. It had to be. No, not a trap; a tease. Showing him an open door and knowing he wouldn't take it. For a moment he considered locking Russia _out_, but it was quickly disregarded as suicidal. He pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and pinched his nose to staunch the sluggish flow. The only other time he'd been in Russia's room it had been dark or in the morning when his main concern was getting the hell out, and he glanced around out of curiosity and distraction.

More bookshelves than his office, Liet noted instantly; he couldn't see any of the titles from where he was sitting. There was a small ornate table and plush chair near the window, presumably for taking tea; matching mahogany wardrobe and chest of drawers, on top of which were a handful of objects: a comb, a bottle of cologne that appear to have never been opened, a black-and-white photograph of Ukraine and Belarus that was slowly collecting dust, a model of St. Basil's Cathedral painted in its bright colors, and a small radio that probably cost a fortune. There was a door to the closet (containing, among other things, the riding crop, and Liet shuddered at the memory), a balalaika leaning against the wall, a painting hung by the window of a field in summer. The desk was slightly smaller than the one in the office, and appeared to be a catch-all for whatever Russia had in hand and couldn't be bothered to put away: a sheaf of papers; an open book, resting pages down; officer's cap; an empty shot glass and a few empty bottles; a smattering of pens; a Red Star pin, complete with the yellow sickle-and-hammer in the center. There was the strong temptation to look through the desk drawers or under the bed, but Liet wasn't sure what he would find, or if he wanted to find it…

He inspected the bookshelf and was somewhat surprised to find an even mix of communist treaties and classics. Hesitating, he pulled out a copy of Dostoevsky's _Poor Folk_ and retreated back to the bed, stopped short in horror, and then sat in the desk chair instead, tucking the bloody kerchief back into his pants' pocket. He tried to read and realized rather quickly that he had managed to choose what was possibly the most depressing book in the room before reminding himself that nearly _all_ Russian literature was depressing. But he tried to focus on it anyways, because he didn't want to be caught reading through any of the communist works and he needed something to keep him distracted. He had to have a distraction, not when he was stuck in Russia's room, shirtless.

He was about thirty-odd pages in when the door opened again.

"Finished," Russia announced, nudging the door shut with his foot. He slipped out of his coat and hung it off the back of the door, sliding off his slippers near the entrance. Lithuania remained where he was, posed on the edge of the seat, took in the damp ruffled hair and guessed that Russia had managed a shower as well.

"Ksh ksh," Russia clicked, a cat sound, and shooed him away from the desk. Liet backed up to the bed, cautious. The huge nation began to unwind his scarf and glanced over, giving him a lopsided smile. "Get ready for bed," he said off-handedly, folding the scarf and laying it on the desk.

Liet's eyes widened; he opened his mouth but Russia continued before he could protest. "You'll spend the night here."

No. No, _damn it_, he was not sleeping in Russia's room! "M- My night clothes are, ah, in my room," he tried feebly, looking away as the arctic country began unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

A knock at the door stopped the forthcoming answer and Liet froze. "Come in," Russia called.

Estonia creaked the door open, saw the taller blond with his shirt half-off and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. "I, um, brought your tea, Russia Zimav—" Estonia broke off with a startled gasp as he spotted Lithuania standing shirtless by the bed.

Lithuania flushed crimson, knowing what his brother saw—the dried blood over his lips and chin, the bite mark high up on his neck. And he was half-undressed.

"Spasiba, Estonia. Put it over there by the window please," Russia said politely, and despite the completely neutral expression Lithuania could see wicked violet gleam as Estonia shuffled over meekly, coming to all the wrong conclusions. The pained expression in his brother's eyes was enough to make him cringe in shame.

"Oh and Estonia?" Russia stopped him as he returned to the door. "Would you please get Lithuania's night clothes from his room?" Liet's jaw dropped as Estonia's brow shot to his hairline. "They are on his bed probably, da?"

Russia turned to him for confirmation, and Liet closed his mouth, swallowed, and forced out a weak "Da."

A part of him couldn't believe it, but really, why not? Lies and propaganda, twisting a handful of actual facts to paint an entirely different picture—that was Russia's specialty. This was just, just, so classically _Russia_.

Said nation busied himself with tea, dropping sugar cubes into his cup, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. Only one cup, which meant that he hadn't warned Estonia, going for as much shock as possible.

The Baltic returned a moment later; at Russia's nod, Lithuania went to the door and accepted the bundle of clothes. Estonia wouldn't look him in the eye, just mumbled "good luck" towards his feet and left. With Russia in earshot, Liet didn't dare to contradict the assumptions. Door shut, he pulled on the shirt quickly, rubbing warmth over chilled skin, and then, with a furtive glance at Russia—just in time to see him splash vodka into his tea—changed swiftly into the new pants. Better now without having to be asked, then to have Russia try to do it for him later.

Russia turned back, tea in hand, an approving smile tilting his lips as he noticed the clothing change. "Here."

Lithuania took the cup with a blink of confusion, then worry. "Oh, um, I don't—"

"Unless you'd rather we trade," Russia finished, offering a mostly-full bottle of vodka.

"Tea is good, thank you." He'd rather vodka-laced tea than straight up vodka, especially in this situation.

Russia nodded, gestured for Liet to sit on the bed as he tucked himself into the chair. Liet did so, wondering why Russia was suddenly being careful with personal distances.

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Russia stared at the bottle between his hands contemplatively, as if it held the answers to life's questions, while Liet tried to finish his tea with a straight face, wondering how, if, he'd get through the night in one piece. His options weren't very promising.

Amazingly, Russia capped his bottled when Liet returned his empty cup to the tray, stifling a yawn. "Sleep," he pronounced, leaving his shirt behind on the chair as he stood, fiddled with the belt of his pants and tossed it there as well. Lithuania stared at the clock—nearly midnight—unwilling, not wanting to… but he peeked over at Russia in spite of himself.

And quickly looked away again, eyes widened in surprise. Russia was _scarred_. He hadn't imagined those pale white lines stretched across his throat the other night; there were tiny nicks and gashes covering his chest and back, a few places over his arms. Some of them, Liet knew, were probably from him, when they were younger…

Reflecting on this somber realization, he didn't notice Russia donning pants and a shirt, nor crossing the room to flick off the lights.

Liet froze, heart racing ahead of his thoughts, eyes scanning the darkness for—

A kiss on his hair and he flinched back, hand flying out to catch himself. A rumble of amusement from a point in front of him and slightly up, then the bed depressed, springs protesting the double weight.

"Lay down, Litva," Russia commanded from somewhere close.

Lithuania's exhale was strained, a heavy knot forcing the air out strangely. "I- Inside, or—?"

"Wherever." He felt Russia shift, arranging blankets over them, never quite touching him.

Trembling, Lithuania laid out on his back near the wall, heart in his throat. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out Russia's form, posture stooped, shoulders drooping, every line in his body screaming an exhaustion that had been invisible a moment before, now revealed in the secret of night. Russia pulled his shoulder blades back, stretching slightly; there was a crack, and a short laugh escaped him like a sigh.

"Ah, I feel old…" he muttered, before lowering himself to the bed, turning on his side. The faint moonlight from the window washed over his face, illuminating the wince that flash across his features, before catching on the glittering amethyst eyes that sought Liet's in the shadows.

He beckoned, "Come." Liet scooted closer an inch; Russia reached out and pulled him close, one arm snaking under the Baltic's neck, the other draping over his side. He bowed his head, looking down at his nation, and petted his hair softly.

Lithuania kept his breathing as even as possible, inhaling the scent of winter as he lay tucked up against the taller nation, tense and wary. But the minutes crawled by and Russia simply continued to pet his hair, nothing else, and slowly lulled Liet into a quiet, sleepy daze, the vodka-tea coaxing out compliance.

"Spokoynya nochi," Russia whispered, a gentle kiss.

"Spuko'n' 'ochi," Lithuania mumbled incoherently, drifting off to sleep.

_This is a trap…_

* * *

Solitary confinement _fucks_ with people, guys. It does awful, awful things to one's head, leading some to believe that it is a horrifyingly effective form of mental torture. Changes in personality and behavior can happen within a day of solitary confinement, and it only gets worse as time goes on. You begin to crave _any _attention, anything that reinforce the fact that yes, you really do exist. Thus, Liet's reaction. (And there's other shit going on that isn't helping him cope, but more on that in the next chapter.)

Vocab:

Spokoynya nochi- good night

Read and review, comrades!


	17. Sovietization

Sorry this chapter took so long to get out. It's double my standard chapter length though, so perhaps the lateness is excusable?

**WARNING:** This was the painful chapter to write. Nothing graphic, but this is your warning. And yeah, the rating went up again. Violence, language, and compromising sexual situations.

* * *

Russia was above him, straddling his hips with just enough weight to keep him there but not enough to hurt. Liet tried to throw himself to the side, wrenching his shoulders painfully as his hands caught above his head, secured to the headboard with rope—where had his shirt gone? Terror cascaded over him, nausea twisting his stomach, freezing his thoughts and _no! God damn it, no!_ and the crooked little smile floating above him coupled horribly with hungry violet eyes, a wolf. Russia trailed icy fingers across bare skin, sent shivers and a thrill of _something_ all the way to Liet's toes, obliterating higher cognitive function down to the basic: _this is not safe, I am so screwed._

"Oh god, Russia, please…" he whispered, his voice the faintest breath in the dark.

Russia ignored him, exploring the contours of Liet's chest, the smooth curve of bone beneath, the drum-taut skin of his stomach, taking in everything with a smoldering appreciation that burned darker with every hitch of Liet's breath. Soft light filtered down through the window, spilling across white sheets and pale skin, threw into glowing relief every mark on their bodies. Russia drew a circle around a smudge of a scar just below the Baltic's left ribs, then tapped it lightly.

"Do you remember, Litva?" he asked softly, resting his finger there.

"Da…" The Third Partition in 1795 that had destroyed the Commonwealth, when Russia had carried him off to live together. He had tried to run; Russia had shot him at close range _after_ catching him, to prove some unknown point. He had been in agony for days…

The huge nation left a kiss over the blemish, then glanced up, catching and holding Lithuania's frightened gaze. Watching him for a reaction, he stroked up Liet's side, paused, then raked his nails down to his waist.

Lithuania gasped, back arching, a flash of warmth searing through him. His heart beat thundered in his ears.

Russia swallowed thickly, grip curling in the hem of his pants. He brushed the back of his knuckles across Liet's cheek, swept a thumb over his lips before he shifted forward to kiss him. Liet turned away but Russia caught his chin and forced him to look back.

_No, no no no_! Vodka and fall's first frost; Russia bit his lower lip and Lithuania whimpered, the sound urging Russia to kiss him deeper, harder, and Liet dug in his heels, tried to push himself up out of the way and couldn't, Russia had him trapped. The hand came up from his pants and tangled in his hair, holding his head still so Russia could run chilled caresses over his torso, accidentally brushing against the newly formed scratches. Liet winced and it didn't go unnoticed; Russia pulled back from the kiss and gently traced the raw lines, teasing out a grimace of pain when he pressed in.

"Russia…" Amethyst eyes found his emerald green; the dark look, old and _wanting_, scared the hell out of him. "P- Please, Russia, don't—"

"Stop?" he queried, head tilted; he dug his fingers into the soft space above Liet's hip.

Lithuania dragged in a sharp hissing breath through clenched teeth. "_Yes_, please—" He saw triumph light up Russia's face and he realized what the arctic nation did, finished his sentence; horror flooded him, "_No!_ _No, _please _stop_, don't _do _this, I_—!_"

But Russia had caught his face again, kissed him aggressively, and Liet jerked away, begging, "No, Russia, stop! Please—!" And he could hear himself, how pathetic, but he was pinned to the bed, wrists tied, there wasn't anything he could _do_, and he was, he was— Russia drew him into another kiss, warm and urgent, and Liet could practically feel the _need_ behind it, flooding his senses, suffocating him. Some detached part of his mind tried to rationalize that this was probably the only time Russia ever felt warm, sharing his frozen with someone, stealing their heat. It was absurd, but every point of contact left a fragment of cold behind.

Russia pulled back, took a breath. Liet sniffed, tears running into his hair. "Please, Russia…"

The arctic nation shifted to the side, pulled Liet's pants down to his ankles, then off.

"_Please_, Russia, stop!" Lithuania sobbed, beyond caring what he sounded like; he couldn't remember ever being more terrified. The cool night air pricked over his skin. "God, Russia, please, I'll do anything, please!" He yanked at his bound wrists hopelessly, a cry of frustration and fear tearing out of his throat.

But he didn't listen. Russia never listened. He swung a leg back over, came forward with his hands flat on either side of the Baltic's head; he dropped onto his left elbow, their faces close, lips just brushing together.

"No you would not," he muttered the words into Liet's mouth, warm vodka-scented breath slipping down his throat. Lithuania almost gagged. "Not 'anything'." He saw the protest in Liet's emerald eyes and repeated his statement before elaborating, "You would not hurt for me." He placed the softest of kisses on Liet's cheek. "You would not lie for me. _To_ me, da… But not for." A kiss on the forehead, which lingered as Russia contemplated his next words. "You would not choose someone to take your place."

"_Wha_—"

"You see? Did not even occur to you. You carry your pain alone. I have seen you, Litva." He moved, their gaze was level again. "So sweet. You would not let others hurt, if you could help it. So what would you do, saying 'anything', if I asked for Latvia in your stead?" He moved, too close; Liet shut his eyes and felt Russia leave a kiss on closed eyelids. "Estonia?" On the left. A pause; Liet looked, unwilling to be caught off-guard. Russia's face hovered just above his and he waited until he had Liet's undivided attention.

"Polshka?" he queried, and there was something in his voice, a challenge, a threat, and god damn it, Russia was right, Liet would _never_ sacrifice one of them, even if that meant—

Mouth dry, Liet licked his lips nervously, the movement flicking his tongue against Russia's lips for the briefest of instants. His heart skipped a beat.

"Heh…" A chuckle, husky and low, before Russia kissed him again, hungrily searching, nudging each knee in turn between Liet's legs. The muffled sound of fear morphed into a quiet squeak when Russia laid icy fingertips on bare skin of Liet's inner thigh, mid-way up, and when the second the kiss stopped Lithuania was begging again, the volume of his voice steadily rising as the touch trailed farther up, closer, poised on the edge—

Russia paused, a long terrible second; Liet stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, chest heaving with short shallow gasps, unable to think, unable to move for fear of—

The slightest shift, angled.

"Russia…" Lithuania breathed, quivering, his entire body coiled tight.

The corners of Russia's mouth quirked upwards, a wolfish smile, and he pushed—

Lithuania shrieked, lurching forward and the strong arms wrapped around him barely stopped him from toppling off the bed onto the floor. He lunged, straining, eyes wild, hands clawing at the hold, but his captor didn't loosen his grip, soothing, imploring, "Shh, Litva, hush. I have you, don't worry, you're safe." But it was such a _lie_ and Liet couldn't get away, thrashing uselessly in the other man's grasp, pinned to his body.

"No! No! Stop it, please, I'm begging you, I'm sorry, I'll be good, I _swear_, please don't- please don't-" Tears streamed down his face as he babbled in Lithuanian, begging, pleading, forcing everything into the background, he didn't hear anything else, just the pounding of his heart and his own voice, drowning out everything else.

Slowly the panic bled away, leaving Liet trembling and muttering denial in Russia's arms, slick with sweat and the scent of unholy terror with images vivid and _sharp_ and that awful gut-wrenching _sick_—

"Shh, shh, Litva, you're okay. You're safe here, don't worry." Russia was murmuring into his ear, stroking his hair gently, and it was just so _fucked up_ that he was trying to comfort him, not when he dreamt that, that—

He cried and Russia held him, and against all logic Liet was comforted. And when Russia said he was safe, a quiet, battered part of him believed it. As exhaustion dragged him back to sleep, lying within Russia's oddly protective embrace, his thoughts couldn't seem to settle, because this wasn't safe and felt safe and was bad and seemed okay and cruel Russia had wiped away his tears and _meant it_...

An even, steady beat. Low. Familiar. A smooth, breathy rush. Repeat. And again.

Bird song too. Liet frowned faintly in confusion, blinking his eyes open.

He was cuddled up next to Russia, head resting on the hollow of his neck and shoulder, fingers twisted lightly in the collar of the man's loose shirt, one leg hiked partially across Russia's hips. The Baltic froze in fear, and embarrassment.

Cautiously, he brought his leg back, off Russia, grip uncurling as he tucked his arm tightly to his chest. Then he paused, uncertain; Russia's right arm was draped across his stomach, but his left hand rested on Liet's side, under the shirt, creating a small pool of cold there. The likelihood that Liet could untangle himself further without waking him up wasn't very high. And given the situation, he preferred the huge nation asleep for as long as possible.

Stifling a sigh, Lithuania dropped his head again, listened to Russia's heartbeat. This was… weird. He shouldn't be _any_ level of comfortable, nestled together with Russia, and yet... There was something almost… nice, about it. If it were just- just this, then maybe he could deal with it.

But it would never be just this. He knew better. Russia had shown him that much. (The _dream_, oh god—Liet snapped his thoughts away before they could pursue that line, gut already curdling.) And the fact that he had even entertained the idea told him just how far he had fallen. God, no wonder Russia fucked with his head so easily. He did half the work for him.

But whether he choose to willingly suffer Russia's attentions or have them force on him, the outcome would still be the same. One simply had less bruises. But, could he stomach that choice? Ignoring what it would look like to other nations, what would that do to him? It was one thing to fight, another to roll over, but to _willingly _go with it…?

He wasn't sure he could live with himself.

A knock at the door; Liet jumped, eyes swiveling up to look at Russia, saw a light frown crease his face. "Chto eto?" he grumbled, eyes still shut.

"R- Russia Zimavich?" Estonia's timid voice called. Glad to know they knew better than to send Latvia.

Violet eyes cracked open in the bright morning light, glaring at the door. "Chto?" the huge nation demanded, a hint of annoyance coloring the question. Lithuania heard the word reverberate in his ribs.

"Ah, um, br- breakfast will be ready shortly—"

"Start without me," Russia ordered, rolling on to his side towards Lithuania, caging the smaller nation in his arms. Liet's body went rigid.

"Should I set some aside for y—"

"Go _away_, Estonia," he growled, head raised to see over Liet's shoulder. Footsteps retreated hastily; Russia dropped back onto the pillow and sighed, the tension evaporating and he nuzzled his face into brunette hair.

"Dobrye utra, Litva," he greeted quietly.

"D- Dobrye utra, Russia Zimavich," Lithuania replied obediently, staring out across the room, hyper aware of the man behind him. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, polite.

"Da, save for when a country woke me up with their screaming," he remarked lightly.

Liet swallowed. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Russia snorted; Liet could feel his lips curve in a smile. "I am teasing."

A few moments of silence. The Baltic bit his lip, toyed with a risk; it was worth a shot. He cautiously tried, "I should, um, pr- probably go help them with breakfa—"

"Nyet." It sounded like a whine. "You will stay here." His hold inched tighter.

"O- Of course." Couldn't blame him for trying. Except Russia could and he was lucky he hadn't. Quiet again, the birds chirping outside. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table and blinked. Was it really almost nine thirty?

"What do you have for work today, Russia Zimavich?" he asked, hoping that the prompt would get Russia up and free him.

"Nyecho, 's Sunday," Russia murmured sleepily.

Was it really? Damn it. He had totally lost track of time, locked in his room. "What day is it?"

"Sunday, June 8th," came the mumbled reply. A soft sound, then, "We'll go to the dacha soon. End of next week. Not this one, the next. Two Sundays from now…" He tugged Liet a little closer. "I would have liked to go at the end of April, but that wasn't… possible."

Lithuania blinked, shifted a little in his arms. Was that… "Russia?"

"Just thinking," he answered softly, and Liet hadn't imagined it, the trace of sadness and longing in his voice. "I will like to get out to the country. So late though; not much gardening this year. But there's still the orchard… What do you think, Litva?"

"Um, th- that sounds fine."

The arctic nation hummed; Liet felt it buzz through them. Then Russia pulled back a little, propped himself up on an elbow and used his free hand to gently roll the Baltic onto his back. Liet stared up at him, his heart quickening, as Russia brushed dark strands away from his face.

"Da, will be good," he repeated, half to himself. "A time to relax. Bicycle rides, fishing; we can go to the forest to pick berries and mushrooms. I think everyone will enjoy it…"

Lithuania had the sudden image of Latvia managing to pick the only poisonous mushrooms in a five kilometer radius. He focused on what Russia said. "Everyone's going?"

"Da, everyone." Russia saw the look on his face and added, "Polshka as well. The four of you will have to share a room though; should not be a problem."

Yeah, until Estonia and Latvia got fed up with Poland and there was a fight.

"My sisters will probably join us at some point too," Russia added.

"Really?" he failed to keep the happy surprise entirely out of his voice.

Russia gave him an unreadable look. "Da. I am not sure where everyone will sleep…"

Lithuania suddenly pictured Belarus in Russia's place and fought down a blush. A lopsided smile tilted Russia's mouth and Lithuania wondered how badly the huge nation misread his reaction. Russia arched his shoulder back; something popped and he winced forwards.

"Ah, well; I think it's time to get out of bed," he said, nudging Liet towards the edge. The Baltic hastily threw off the covers and got to his feet; Russia followed at a more leisurely pace. In a minute he was dressed, donning an embroidered shirt and slack pants while Lithuania dutifully studied the floorboards.

"Run to your room and get dressed," Russia instructed, opening the door and stepping out into the hall, Lithuania right behind him. He turned and left a kiss on Liet's forehead before the shorter nation could react. "See you downstairs," he smiled and walked away, and Liet's heart stuttered to a stop in his chest as Russia passed Poland in the hall.

Poland, who was staring at Lithuania open-mouthed, torn between horror and disgust. Lithuania couldn't think of anything he could say to make the picture better and a hundred things that could make it worse, and wound up blurting out, "Poland, this honestly isn't what it looks like." Thank _god_ Russia was out of earshot.

The blonde just shook his head sadly, dazed, dropping his gaze to the floor as he trudged downstairs to breakfast.

Over the next few days, Russia made it very hard for Lithuania to prove otherwise. The arctic nation had apparently decided that Liet was his new favorite, more so than usual. The Baltic's personal space frequently vanished as Russia casually looped an arm around his waist while Liet washed dishes, ruffled his hair when he passed, left faint kisses in his hair, on his neck. And he demanded Liet's company constantly. Lithuania found himself playing secretary while the other nation worked, quietly filing papers and addressing envelopes, or accompanying Russia when he attended meetings. This did nothing for Lithuania's anxiety, which slowly increased like a heavy mantle draped about his shoulders.

Poland responded to Russia's increased attentions to his friend by monopolizing the rest of Liet's free time. Whenever he wasn't with Russia, Poland was _right there_, clinging to his arm while he tried to clean and generally making a nuisance of himself. Lithuania realized that this was merely Poland expressing worry and jealousy, but honestly, it rapidly became irritating. Liet spent more energy not snapping at Poland than he'd cared to admit, which placed Poland close to the same level as Russia as far as wasted energy went.

But Russia remained the real problem.

On Thursday when Liet needed to go grocery shopping, Russia went with him, 'to keep you out of trouble' he joked, but Liet saw the look in his eyes and knew he was only half-joking. He suspected that Russia wanted to go in order to keep tabs on him, but counted his small blessing—Russia didn't do public displays of affection. He'd be free of the unsolicited attention for at least a little while.

They walked back in the pleasant June weather, light breeze tugging at the long white scarf as Lithuania trailed a few steps behind Russia out of habit. Wispy white clouds that would in the winter herald a blizzard instead promised clear skies, and were it not for the location and company, Liet thought that maybe he could have actually relaxed and enjoyed himself.

In the distance a puff of smoke marred the horizon; within a few minutes Liet could see a train approaching on the tracks that ran alongside the road, lumbering slowly towards them. As it drew level with them Russia stopped and watched; recognition sparked in his expression.

"Wave, Litva," he commanded, doing so himself as the engine and coal bed clanked past.

Lithuania obeyed automatically, freeing a hand from the bag he carried, wondering why they were waving. Russia was in the habit of stopping to salute trains full of his soldiers, knowing that to be a soldier in his army was to greatly increase one's chance of death; he was fully aware of war's cost, of how many soldiers he was likely to lose, and they knew it, and were willing to fight for him. And Russia loved them for it, loved them and was gratefully, and everything he could not say to them in words was expressed in that single action, a textbook perfect salute, heart bursting with pride.

(The other day they had run into a group of children, ten years old at best, playing ball; one boy, upon seeing Russia's uniform, boastfully explained that his older brother was in the army, and that when he grew up he was going to be a soldier too. Russia had laughed happily—there was a note of sadness in it—and ruffled his hair; 'you make your country very proud' he said, and the boy beamed, and when they walked away Russia looked oddly empty.)

When Russia saluted, Lithuania would salute as well because Russia expected him to, but Liet was familiar with the pride-gratitude-grief cocktail that hit him hard every time he saw his own soldiers, so the salute didn't hurt as much as it should have.

But as Lithuania watched the train cars roll past, he saw that they were not soldiers at all, even though it was a military engine; they were civilians, men, women, even children, all tired and exhausted and inexplicably sad. The anxiety in his chest flinched a little tighter and his mouth formed the question before he could stop himself.

"Why are we waving?"

Russia made a sound caught between amused and patient. "It would be rude not to wave to your people."

Lithuania froze, wrist locking. "What?" he managed faintly, stomach twisting. "My…"

"Da, yours," Russia repeated pleasantly, still waving.

Liet struggled to swallow, to _think_, slowly lowering his arm. "Wh- Where are they going?"

"To Siberia."

"To _Siberia?_" It came out a shriek.

"Da. Just the men though; the women and children go to Kiev, I think…"

The grocery bag slipped from his grip and hit the ground; he heard glass break, and a few apples rolled away toward Russia's feet. "God…" That sick feeling, the anxiety; it had been-

"Tsk, tsk, Litva; look what you—"

"Why?" he forced out.

"Chto—"

"_Why_?" he demanded, voice desperate.

Russia blinked at him. "Conspiracy, probably; anti-Soviet sentiment, also… inciting public insurrection, if I had to venture a guess," he shrugged.

His jaw worked soundlessly as the train continued to crawl by. "Th- the women and children too?" he spat, an edge to his words.

Russia sighed, turned to fully face him. "What would you have me do, Litva? Separate families? Mothers from their children? Brothers from—"

"I'd have you leave them alone!" Lithuania shouted, tears brimming.

"Litva…" Russia growled, eyes darkening.

From over the huge nation's shoulder, Liet saw the last car pass; a boy at the window was staring at them, and when their eyes met the child flashed him a rude sign before hands shot forward and dragged him out of sight.

Something _painful_ shot through him then, wrenched the breath from his lungs and it _hurt_, more than anything he had felt in a long time. A tiny part of his brain rationalized that the gesture probably wasn't aimed at him—_he_ wasn't the one wearing the Red Army uniform, but he was wearing the Special Military District uniform and oh god, his _people_—it _felt_ like the gesture was aimed at him, for giving in so easily to the ultimatum, for letting Russia walk in and do whatever the hell he wanted, for not even putting up a fight, and now _this—_

The agony flashed over to anger in a heartbeat. "Murderer."

The expected backhand snapped his head to the side; Lithuania took a shuddering breath, trying to blink back the red haze clouding his vision, listening to the train clank away to deliver his people to a slow and exhausting death.

"Pick up the groceries," Russia ordered curtly.

Lithuania didn't move.

"Now."

He crouched and collected the escaped apples, Russia towering over him as he tucked them back into the bag—a jar of jam had broken in the fall, he ignored it. He stood, groceries in hand, staring mutely through Russia, feigned detachment.

"Attention!"

He reacted before he could stop himself, heels snapping together, chin jerking up; he gritted his teeth against the harsh reply that threatened to spill out. That was the game Russia wanted to play? Fine.

"About _face_."

He did so.

"Forward, _march_."

And Russia marched him home.

The huge nation left him standing at attention just inside the door after relieving him of the groceries. Lithuania stood stiffly, eyes and throat burning from unshed tears. He wasn't going to lose this. He fucking _refused_.

But as time passed and Russia did not return, he realized that the huge nation wanted him to break rank; Liet suspected that this was Russia looking for a reason to punish him beyond the 'murderer' comment. So he stood there, neck and shoulders slowly stiffening, legs trying to fall asleep, and waited. He could hear his brothers moving around in the kitchen, probably preparing dinner—his stomach reminded him of how long ago his last meal had been. Poland walked out of the living room, grumbling, and stopped when he spotted the Baltic.

His brows furrowed. "Liet? Like, what are you doing? Why are you just stan—"

"Polshka! Leave Litva be," Russia called from the kitchen. His poor brothers, Liet reflected sadly. "You know a soldier cannot talk when he's at attention."

The blond made a face. "Are you serious?" he said to Liet under his breath. "Why are you listening to him? He's like, totally not even near you right now."

'I won't lose this,' he silently mouthed to his friend. Poland frowned, unsure, but seemed to come to a decision in his head, nodding with determination.

"Good luck then—"

"Polshka!"

Said country flinched, muttering, "It's Polska, _Polska_, no 'sh'," as he slunk up the stairs.

No one dared bother him after that. Once night fell—ugh, he ached—his brothers barely glanced at him when they went upstairs to bed. Liet was beginning to fear that Russia was going to leave him there all night, in which case he'd definitely lose because he'd eventually fall asleep. But after what felt like maybe an hour after his brothers had passed by (he had no sense of time, especially after the sun set), Russia returned, standing silently in front of Liet, studying him. Lithuania stared through him blankly in the way only a soldier could, expression one of carefully schooled neutrality.

In his periphery, he saw Russia smirk, lightly taking his chin and tilting his face upwards. Liet didn't focus on the man's face, but shut his eyes briefly when Russia kissed him softly.

"Permission to speak, sir," Lithuania ground out when the contact ended.

Russia moved behind him, twining his arms around Liet's waist as he stepped up close. "Permission denied," he answered casually.

Lithuania bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper. If he stood even half a chance of taking Russia in a fight, even _half_—but he didn't and knew it and _hated_ himself for it.

"You listen so well, Litva," Russia purred near his ear. His hands drifted lower, settling on the waistband of Liet's pants, fingers trailing lower. Lithuania was shaking, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn't from fear.

"Your people could learn from your example—"

Liet threw his elbow back and caught Russia in the chin, and his stumbling surprise granted Lithuania just enough time to land a solid punch to his cheek before the man recovered, catching the third blow at the wrist and twisting. Liet twisted with it, sinking another fist into Russia's stomach and he grunted, grip loosening enough for Liet to wrench his hand free. He sprang backwards, putting a little distance between them to breathe before lunging back in and some part of him knew it was pointless but he just couldn't bring himself to care. Russia saw the incoming kick and neatly side-stepped with a grace that belied his size, swinging his fist at Liet's head. The Baltic ducked away, right into Russia's rising knee.

The air rushed out of his lungs in a pained sound; he crumpled, catching himself on his knees and a hand, but before he could take a breath Russia kicked him squarely in the ribs. Liet felt something _crack_, agony flaring along his side as he toppled to the ground completely. Groaning, he pushed himself up, right hand straying to his ribs, but a heavy boot landed between his shoulders and forced him to the wooden floor.

"I am surprised, Litva," Russia commented pleasantly from above him. "I did not think you were capable of fighting back."

Liet tried to squirm out from under Russia's foot but the huge nation pressed down harder; he gritted his teeth against the sharp pain.

"You were doing so well; I wonder what has happened to you. Perhaps Polshka is a bad influence, da?"

There was a threat in those words. "He's not," Liet managed, gasping as the weight shifted.

"Nyet? This is your own doing?" A disapproving cluck. "I expected better of you. Such an abrupt loss of temper—"

"There's nothing abrupt about it! You shipped my people to _Siberia_, they didn't do anyth—ah!" Lithuania broke off as Russia ground his heel into Liet's spine.

"If I say your people are conspiring against me, Litva, then they are conspiring against me," he snarled.

Liet blinked back the red and the tears. "Liar," he whispered through the pain.

A shriek tore its way out of him as Russia stomped down hard, the damaged rib spreading fire through his chest like a spider web as white light obliterated his sight. A hand grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him up, half dragging him as he struggled to get his feet under him. He was wrenched up higher—he blinked the white away, saw the living room—and shoved forward; he stumbled into the couch and collapsed there. He straightened to kneeling, wincing as he did, but before he could stand Russia had reached around, grabbing hold of his jacket and yanking; buttons flew, Russia tore the thing backwards off Liet's arms and panic slammed into the boy with enough force to wind him again, but a hand on his shoulder spun him partially around, shoved him down onto the sofa and pinned him there.

"Russia—!" The arctic nation ignored him, snatching Liet's belt and fumbling with the buckle; Lithuania tried to stop him, frantically pushing his hands away, and Russia tolerated the interference for about ten seconds before he drew back and decked him—Liet blinked, reeling, the protesting dying momentarily as he tried to stop the ringing between his ears.

"No, Russia…" And the belt was undone, Liet _forced_ himself to focus, "Get off me!"

Russia kissed him, biting down on his lip and Liet tasted blood; he slapped Russia across the face, hard enough that the kiss ended. Icy fingers curled around his throat, pressing down to crush his windpipe; he choked, gagging, hands clawing at Russia's grip. The huge nation grinned crookedly, kneeling on the narrow sofa, looming over him, and the look in his violet eyes was so glazed, so dark and pleased and sad and _good god, I can't breathe! I can't—_

"Get off of him you fucking jerk!" A pink slipper collided with the side of Russia's head, the distraction lessening the pressure a fraction—Lithuania knocked the hand aside, _breathed_, coughing, and Poland was there, latched onto Russia's arm, trying to haul him off. Russia swung; Poland tried to duck and caught the blow to the head instead of his face. Liet saw the blonde's eyes unfocus; he threw his hips into to the side and the arctic nation toppled off him, off the sofa to the floor, dragging Poland down with him.

Lithuania scrambled off the couch, his first instinct to run, fast and far, but— "Poland!" Russia had the struggling country pinned to the floor, the light in his face bright and wild as he pulled back a fist, "Poor little Polshka, you keep getting in the way—"

"Stop it!" Liet grabbed desperately, hands closing on the soft white scarf and he pulled. Russia's hand flew up to his neck even as he swung an elbow back, clipping Liet's knee; compared to everything else the blow barely registered, rage and fear and adrenaline kept his grip knotted up in the make-shift noose. Russia tried to stand, but a sharp tug on the scarf lost him his balance; there was a sharp crack as he landed heavily on Poland's ankle and the blonde howled.

"OW, my _ankle_, Christ! Get off, get off, son of a _fucking_ bitch, get your fat ass off of me—"

Lithuania hauled backwards with all his weight, scarf threatening to tear, and it was barely enough to get the huge country off. Russia twisted as he moved, lunging for Lithuania and—"Shit!"—pulling his feet out. His head cracked into the coffee table and the world winked out in a crimson flash.

...

His head throbbed, a deep painful pulse that made him want to take a swill of laudanum for the numbness and sleep it would grant him. But he could hear Russia, cooing low sickly-sweet false words—

"Litva is _mine_—"

—and Poland, weakened voice spitting back denials—

"Liet's never been 'yours' and he totally never will be—"

—and the sound of Russia telling Poland how very wrong he was.

The shriek wrenched his eyes open, the light blinding; he blinked the tears away and sat up, wincing, saw Russia standing ominously over Poland, the blonde on his knees facing the wall, sobbing in pain as the arctic nation methodically twisted the already dislocated shoulder further back.

"Stop it," Lithuania breathed, head spinning as he tried climb to his feet. The floor slanted and he staggered into the couch, caught himself.

Russia didn't respond, eyes fixed on the ragged nation under his hand. "Say it, Polshka. Litva is _mine_. Say it."

"Fuck you, fuck you," Poland muttered in his own tongue. "You're a tyrannical psychopath, totally fucked in the head, ah…" He grimaced as Russia slowly increased pressure. "Insane, fucking commie bastard—"

"Insulting me does not help you, doragoi moi," Russia said plainly, loosening his hold a fraction; Poland moaned in relief.

Even through the pounding in his skull Liet frowned at the statement. But… Russia didn't know Polish. Right?

"Say it, Polshka."

"No."

Russia twisted, the boy gasped. "Say it."

"Russia, stop it," Liet tried feebly, stumbling a few steps closer. Was he concussed?

"Go fuck yourself," Poland spat.

"Say it," Russia growled, patience thinning.

"Fuck you, I said—" Russia jerked Poland upwards by his arm, partially lifting him off the floor, and the blonde screamed. "He's yours! Fuck you, he's yours, ah, god, it _hurts_!" The huge nation released him and he collapsed to the ground, cradling his arm against his body as he cowered, shaking and crying.

Triumph tilted the corner of Russia's lips. "Not so difficult, da? Moi xorashinki malchik."

Lithuania punched him.

Russia stepped back laughing, a short hollow sound—Liet could see a fading slap across his face, like a fake blush coloring his pale cheeks, and a dark purple ring beginning to curve around one eye. _Good_, Liet _wanted_ to leave a mark, he would have been furious if nothing had shown.

"Leave Poland alone," he demanded, but the strength the words had in his head didn't quite make it out clearly.

The huge nation giggled, entertained, blood trickling down from his now split lip. "Lithuania to the rescue? You must have spent far too much time with America during the twenties."

His hands tightened into fists. "America's a hundred times better than you."

Something flickered across Russia's face but it was gone before Liet had the time to decipher it. "He is no hero. Neither are you. Lithuania to the rescue? Da, because you did such a good job helping Polshka the last time he needed it." Russia saw Liet flush and grinned, wolf-like. "Very good job, standing idly by while Germany and I had our way with him." Liet's stomach lurched; from the vicinity of Russia's feet, Poland swore, but Liet couldn't drag his eyes away from the iced violet gaze. "Really, you say you are friends, but he stole your capital, and you ignored his cries for help. Petty reason to allow a nation to be erased off the map, Litva—"

"That's not why I didn't help—!"

"You're right; it's not." Russia stepped forward suddenly, closed the distance between them. "You didn't help because you knew you'd _lose_." The fabric of his coat lingered against Lithuania's bare chest when the taller man took a breath, and Liet had almost forgotten how, air tangled up in his throat as he fought the overwhelming urge to step back.

Russia leaned forward. "What changed, Litva?" he whispered, lips just barely brushing against the Baltic's. Vodka, vodka and a blizzard's fury- "Do you think you can win now?"

It wasn't rhetorical. Lithuania tried to swallow and couldn't, his mouth was too dry. "N- no…"

"Then don't fight me," Russia warned, the words warm in his mouth, and the huge nation wrapped his arms around the trembling boy, pulled him against his chest. Liet stiffened, tried to pull back, but a sharp flare in his ribs told him that they weren't completely healed yet. Strong fingers gripped his chin and tilted his face upwards; the kiss was surprisingly tender, but the lingering taste of blood ruined any soothing effect it might have had. When Russia pulled back he wouldn't allow Liet to look away, searching his eyes for something.

"You know how this night is going to end," he said softly. Liet's breath hitched, rib aching. "But the… details, are up to you."

Lithuania glanced away as much as Russia would let him, heart stuttering fear in his chest. This was… this was it then. Somehow he had pictured it differently.

"D- Don't do it, Liet," Poland wheezed. Lithuania shut his eyes. Somehow, hearing the desperation and warning in his friend's voice made the whole ordeal worse. Even Poland thought that he'd...

Russia released his chin, waiting expectantly. Lithuania looked down at the lack of space between them and counted to ten, ten long seconds as he worked up the courage to speak. He didn't want to do this. He didn't. But, what choice did he have? Two choices, same outcome. He already hurt so much...

Lithuania raised his emerald eyes to Russia's amethyst, and quietly answered, "Fuck you, Russia."

The hope and fragile kindness that lit his face was snuffed out in an instant.

"So you choose," he murmured, and any lingering sadness had bled out of his voice, replaced by a frigid detachment.

Lithuania fought. How could he not, even knowing the outcome? But the damage he had already accrued worked against him and Russia was not above using that to his advantage. Resisting was as futile as Liet suspected it would be, and eventually he gave in, the pain too much to bear, but not after hopefully giving Russia something to think about. Poland had tried to stop him, in the beginning, despite his dislocated shoulder and broken ankle, and Russia used Liet's belt to tie him to the arm chair by the window. At least he was out of the way and safer for it, Liet didn't want him any more damaged than he already was. But he wished that they hadn't been in the same room. He wished Poland hadn't heard him cry out, hadn't heard him gasp Russia's name when he asked, anything to get him to stop, and of course nothing got him to stop. Because it was Russia, and that's just how Russia was.

Moonlight cut slices of night out of the floor as Lithuania lay tucked up next to him, the huge nation slumbering peacefully, face angelic and cold and fierce in the blue-silver glow, his hair shining white. The long army coat draped over them was just barely warm enough, but Russia surprisingly made up for the rest. Except for his hands, a cold puddle over Liet's bruised ribcage, the angry red scratch marks that trailed down his back, competing with the scars for prominence. He could only hear Russia's soft breath, the sound of his heart, the quiet ticking of the mantle clock.

Poland broke the stillness. "Liet?" When the Baltic didn't answer, he tried again, slightly louder.

"What?" his voice sounded flat and empty even to his own ears.

"Are… are you okay?"

It was a stupid question, but Liet knew there weren't many other things to say. "I don't think so."

"Russia's an asshole—"

"Poland. I really don't want to talk right now," Liet said quietly.

And the relative silence descended again. He figured he ought to free Poland from the chair so that maybe one of them could sleep in their bed tonight, but he knew he didn't have the strength or the will power to get up. So Lithuania stayed where he was, wrapped in Russia's arms, wishing he could drop off the face of the earth.

And he meant it.

* * *

Like I said, this was the _painful_ chapter to write.

A dacha is a summer house, a Russian tradition. Honestly, more Russians have a dacha than a car. And a (traditional) dacha isn't like an American summer house, it's not some fancy resort-type place. It's more rustic, possibly lacking in plumbing and electricity. Yes, the Russian idea of a summer vacation is to go out to their dacha on the weekends, or longer if they can, and garden and such. Basically, get back to nature, to the soul of Russia, to the land that makes you who you are. Eh, I don't know if I'm describing this well...

June 14th, 1941 was the start of the June deportations, where thousands of 'Soviet hostiles' and other 'anti-Soviet elements' (read as: Lithuanian, Estonian, and Latvian intelligentsia, along with some Belorussians and Ukrainians of the same vein) were shipped off to Siberia and the like on trumped up or made up charges of anti-Soviet activities, following the Soviet policy of 'decapitation'. By removing the political and social elite, the Soviet Union made it much harder for the Baltics (and every other nation the Soviets took over) to organize a resistance or even protest. The men were sent to the gulags in Siberia, where many of them died from horrendous living conditions, while the women and children were resettled in Kiev and other places where the government could keep a better eye on them. The deportations fanned massive anti-Soviet sentiments across the Baltics, particularly in Lithuania.

Russian vocab:

nyecho- nothing

Moi xorashinki malchik- my good little boy. The word 'xorashinki' is the diminutive of 'xorasho' meaning good; the diminutive form carries the connotations of being small and cute, which is why nicknames and pet names are often in the diminutive form. However, in the wrong context is can be really insulting and mocking, as you can see.

The next chapter is likely the last.

Read and review, comrades!


	18. False Hope

The official last chapter! I apologize for my extreme lateness in posting this; I go royally side-tracked by preparing for and attending ConnectiCon '10, which I attended as Russia, home-made uniform and everything! I had so much fun~! But now I'm back with the last chapter. Since you've waited long enough, I'll save commentary for the end. Please enjoy the final chapter of 1940: Lithuania!

* * *

"Liet…"

"Liet."

"_Liet_."

The Baltic groaned softly, eyes focusing on the sofa pattern; brow furrowed, he shifted his gaze higher, to the washed out grey light of early morning, to his pants in a crumpled heap on the opposite couch where Russia had thrown them—

He sucked in a sharp breath. Russia lying there beside him, behind him, an arm draped loosely over his waist, and he was not going to panic, or lose it, or freak out, or—

A quiet sob escaped him and he clasped his hands tightly over his mouth to stifle the sound, tears streaming sideways down his face. Oh _god_… He screwed his eyes shut, tried to still the tremors shaking his body, tried to ignore the soft sleepy breaths that ghosted through his hair.

_Russia kneeling over him, moonbeams lighting up his hair snow white, casting his face into shadow, save for two glittering flecks of amethyst._

"_Say you love me," he commanded gently, doing nothing, just watching__._

_A dry swallow, hands pinned above his head; struggling to arrange his thoughts in the brief moment he was allowed to think. "Ya lyubyu tyebya," he rasped._

_Russia continued anyways_—

Sudden fear overtook him. He had to get out of here. Off the couch, something, anything, distance, he needed distance.

Cautiously, he slid out from under Russia's arm onto the cool wooden floor, a shiver passing through him as the crisp morning air nipped at bare skin. He was keenly aware of Poland's presence as he struggled into his pants, biting back a swear as he accidentally nudged a tender bruise, one of dozens. He probably looked like hell. He _felt_ like hell.

Poland also looked terrible, dried blood marking a trail down from his nose and lips. From the bloodied raw on the boy's wrists, Liet guessed he had tried to escape for the better part of the night.

Poland watched Lithuania intently as the Baltic unbelted him from the armchair. "Liet, are you okay?" Poland asked quietly. Liet faintly remembered him asking the same question last night.

"No, but I will be," he lied, avoiding his searching gaze. The hollow sound still lingered in his voice, damn.

"Liet…"

"Is it true?" he asked abruptly, voice hushed. "What Russia said. That he and Germany…" His hand twitched, a repressed gesture.

There was a stricken silence. It was answer enough.

"God, Poland-" His voice broke and he was crying again, hunched over choking on the sound. He felt Poland wrap his twig-thin arms around him, cotton against his naked chest, holding him gently, petting his hair and he felt _awful_. But he couldn't lose it here, not when Russia was so close_._ He pulled back, could practically sense Poland's confusion.

"What's happened to us?" Liet muttered dejectedly, staring duly at the floor's wood grain pattern. "How did it come to this? We used to be the biggest country in Europe; a few petty fights, and centuries later we're brought this low?"

"Liet-"

"Look at us, Poland." He met his friend's eyes, saw concern etched into every line and feature of his face. It nearly broke his heart. "We're crouched on the floor, battered, bruised, half fucking _dressed _in my case; he's just sleeping there, and I wonder, did it even occur to you that we could, oh, I don't know, bash his skull in with the fucking lamp and buy ourselves enough time to get out of here? We're _broken_, Poland. I'm- I'm broken." The defeat rang clearly in the confession; Liet shook his head, quiet anger spent. "I can't even- I don't have the strength to stay angry. I just- it hurts. I can't- I can't do this, Poland." Something splattered on the side of his hand, a tear. "I just can't do this…"

Poland was silent. Liet saw dust motes drift through the air, curling in Poland's breath. "Everything's for something, Liet," he finally whispered.

"What?"

Emerald weakly met his own. "All this stupid shit, it's like, totally for something. I don't what, yet, but, definitely for something," he said firmly.

"How can you be so sure?" Liet murmured.

A half smile cracked the serious edges of the blonde's face. "Because the idea that it doesn't mean jack shit hurts too much."

Lithuania blinked, then hugged him for a long minute. "We should get off the floor," he said, drawing back. He glanced at Russia; thank god the man was a heavy sleeper.

"Like, only if you pick me up." Liet was momentarily confused by the lack of expected whine, then remembered, looking—Poland's ankle, badly swollen. He suppressed a wince, standing.

"Uh, wait, let me find my shirt-" His stomach twisted-

_Russia wrenching the coat off and pinning him to the couch_—

He shuddered violently. _Twice now._ _That's a bad sign_…

The undershirt was missing all of its buttons, hanging loosely open as Liet helped Poland to his room, bringing him a damp washcloth to clean off the blood and the first aid kit, woefully low on supplies. Liet tended to the blonde's injuries quietly, instructing Poland to brace himself before popping in the dislocated shoulder. Then Lithuania retreated to the bathroom with a fresh change of clothes and scrubbed himself raw, biting his lip when soap got into one of the many scratches, or when he touched a bruise. And when he felt semi-clean, three whole scrubs later, he emptied and refilled the tub again, simply soaking in the hot water, his thoughts mercifully blank. And he stayed that way until he heard Estonia stirring in the room over.

He managed to make down to the kitchen before Estonia, his pace quickening ever so slightly as he passed through the living room with its slumbering time bomb. Estonia's footsteps came to a dead halt in the living room, motionless for a full thirty seconds, then swift light steps to the kitchen. Liet braced himself.

"God, Lithuania, what happened?" Hushed and urgent.

"_God, Russia, please… Nn, ah, Russia!"_

He didn't turn away from the stove, grip tightening on the spatula. "I'm fine," he managed, strained.

A pause. "That's a lie," his brother said softly, a statement of fact.

"Then let me have this lie, Estonia!" he snapped, whirling.

Estonia flinched.

Lithuania's shoulders slumped. "I- I'm sorry. I just, let it alone, okay? I don't, I can't handle it right now-"

Estonia closed the distance in four strides and hugged him wordlessly. Liet felt himself tearing up again.

"Heh, you know, I won't be able to stop crying if people keep hugging me," he mumbled, trying to smile and failing miserably.

"Then cry," the other nation insisted gently.

Lithuania shook his head, pulling back. "I can't. I have to make breakfast and-"

"I'll make breakfast," Estonia said, plucking the spatula from Liet's grasp, holding up a hand to silence his protests. "No, go take care of yourself. Please."

Gratitude brought fresh tears to his eyes but he stopped short at the doorway, hesitating, but the front door was still locked so he couldn't go around the back. He crept through the living room, heart pounding, too scared to look, and just barely stopped himself from running up the stairs to his room.

Forty minutes later, after he nearly hyperventilated when he heard the sound of Russia's footsteps going by twice, a soft knock dragged him out of his numb daze.

"Lithuania?"

The tension seeped out of his shoulders. Estonia.

"Yeah?" he called out.

"W- Well, Russia won't let us eat until you come down…"

Liet groaned quietly. Of course. "I'm coming," he answered, half wishing that he was the sort of asshole that could say 'well fuck your breakfast then'.

All eyes turned to him when he entered the kitchen, three pairs full of concern and sadness, one full of a quiet, pleased dominance.

"Dobrye utra, Litva," Russia greeted him pleasantly. Lithuania's stomach twisted at the sound of his voice, involuntarily recalling images and sensations he didn't want to remember. He dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Dobrye utra, Russia Zimavich," Lithuania responded, and took his seat next to him without another word. He didn't see the smirk that curved the huge nation's lips for the briefest instant before they started eating.

Russia finished quickly and left for work, pausing to kiss Liet's hair before he went. Lithuania trembled where he sat, desperately trying to ignore the feel of everyone staring at him, and the moment he heard the front door shut he was out of his seat, losing his breakfast into the kitchen sink.

How long was he going to have to put up with this?

Russia made no mention of the incident at all, but his attitude towards Liet had changed slightly. He was careful to keep his distance, in his own weird way; Lithuania noticed that Russia seemed abruptly very conscious of personal space ideas. He continued to break them of course, but every casual touch was gentle, more affectionate somehow, as if Russia did not wish to frighten the Baltic.

Lithuania flinched every time anyways.

He spent the days leading up to the dacha trip avoiding the living room like the plague—memories, sudden gut-wrenching flashbacks that stole his breath and drove him to his knees in fear. And even more embarrassing was when Poland saw that, or one of his brothers. Their witness made his assurances of 'no really, I'm fine' sound all the more hollow. And Russia was no help. Yes, he didn't say anything, and yes, he was being his odd flavor of 'kind', but he was still _there_ and he still touched him and how the hell could he just act like nothing happened? Didn't it mean anything to him? Or was it only a big deal to Liet, was that sort of thing just not important to Russia? Liet almost _wished_ that Russia would say something, because at this point acknowledgment in _either_ direction was better than this uncaring indifference.

And he regretted those thoughts when Russia called him to his office after dinner about a week after, and told Liet without looking up from his paperwork that the Baltic would be staying in his room that night. The brunette trembled, staring at the other nation in a disbelieving terror, _again_, he was going to do this _again _and—?

"Ru- Russia Zimavich, please, I—"

"I expect to see you there in," violet eyes glanced at the clock on his desk. "Ten minutes."

And that was that. No argument, no threat, just a simple statement backed by Russia's quiet confidence that his order would be carried out. Liet retreated to his room, changed into his night clothes and almost, _almost_ barricaded his door, but remembered that Poland and his brothers were there, just a room or two away, and was he willing to risk them in a futile gesture of defiance?

When Russia went to his room, he found Lithuania sitting in the armchair by the window, shaking, unable to meet his eyes.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Very good, Litva."

Lithuania burst into tears.

When Russia had fallen asleep, Liet crept through the dark to the bathroom and sat in the full tub listlessly, wishing he could drown himself and feeling all the more miserable because he _couldn't_.

He started dreading the time when Russia would return home from work in the evening, swallowing his anxiety until it turned his stomach, not knowing if the nation would let him be that night or— He counted down the days to the dacha trip not in excitement but desperation, because surely there, with so little space, Russia wouldn't dare- But he had when Poland was _right there_, he wouldn't do that twice, right? Please, dear god, Lithuania had to hope, had to have something. The others watched him with concern and when Latvia quietly remarked on how exhausted he looked, Liet nearly broke down, nearly lost it, because _of course_ he was exhausted, he couldn't sleep without having nightmares, and that was when he was able to sleep!

They woke up blindingly early the day of the dacha trip, packing their things while Russia slept in late and then finished some last minute work. Poland, with his damaged ankle—why wasn't he healed by now?—was of no help at all, sitting himself on one of the steamer trunks and babbling at them while they struggled to get things down the stairs without hurting themselves.

"This whole trip is kinda stupid, you know?" the blonde declared, brandishing a sugar-loaded tea cup. "I mean, doesn't he like, have way better things to do than totally skip out on like, responsibilities and stuff?"

Liet listened to his friend chatter in silence, letting the sound wash over him in waves, soothing away the thoughts of last night.

"Maybe a vacation will relax him," Latvia tried nervously, setting down the packed lunch by the suitcases. "Then he might be nicer…"

"Russia's a total jerk," Poland pronounced. "He'll _never_ be nice. God, Latvia, don't you know?"

"Poland, please don't speak to Latvia that way," Estonia requested, pausing in his inspection of his suitcase's lock.

"What? Like what way? I'm just telling him that—"

"We're all aware of Russia's disposition; kindly do not point out the obvious in that tone of voice—"

"But _what_ tone of voice? I didn't do anything—"

Lithuania had no idea how they were all going to share a room and avoid pissing off Russia. But before he could intervene in the brewing argument, a knock at the door distracted all of them.

"That must be the car!" Russia called from upstairs, freezing the countries where they stood. "Litva, get the door!"

Poland and Estonia picked right up again once they determined that Russia had nothing more to say. Sighing, Lithuania let them be and went to the door, opening it to see—

Germany.

Before he could even get a word out, the brusque nation had shoved him aside and stepped in. Poland's reaction was immediate.

"What are you doing here? Get lost, I don't have to go back yet! I don't have to go back yet!"

But Poland couldn't run on his ankle, staggering back against the wall for support as his tea cup slipped from his fingers, terror and fury lighting up his bright green eyes. Germany was there a moment later, trying to hold him, and Lithuania didn't know why he and his brothers were just standing there, stunned, as Poland shouted,

"Get the fuck off me, get off, help, Liet! Liet, help me!"

Liet turned and ran for the stairs, tripping half-way up them, knees cracking into the wood as he shouted, "Russia! Germany's here, he's after Poland!"

"Chto?" The sound of something heavy hitting the floor; Poland's protest was abruptly cut off and as Liet stumbled back down the steps he saw Germany heft the now unconscious nation over his shoulder.

"Wh- what are you doing?" he stuttered uselessly.

Germany turned, Poland swaying listlessly with the movement. "Taking Poland back. Get out of my way."

Lithuania hesitated. "B- but, he's here for another two months still…" He could hear Russia racing down the hallway upstairs; if he could delay for a little longer...

Germany gave him a disbelieving look, as if he couldn't fathom how the Baltic hadn't caught on yet, and brushed past him without another word.

Liet took a step towards him. "Germany!"

The stern nation didn't even pause, but Russia was thundering down the steps, coming around the landing shouting, "Germany! What the hell do you think you're—"

The fist caught Russia square in the face with enough force to send him sprawling; Lithuania heard his brothers gasp right along with him.

Russia sat there a moment, blinking up at Germany, surprise painted across his features. "We- We have a nonaggression treaty!" he finally sputtered.

"Had," Germany answered shortly, before walking out the front door.

No one moved, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then Russia was on his feet, scrambling back up the stairs to his office, Estonia and Latvia racing into the living room. Lithuania stood in the middle of the hall, his brain desperately trying to process the rapid sequence of events, because Germany had shown up without an official visit which meant that the Soviet government didn't want him here and he took Poland and _punched _Russia and holy god…

In the living room, the radio reached his same conclusion: Germany has declared war on the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics!

As he marveled at this revelation, Russia came back downstairs, Vintovka Mosina slung over his shoulder along with a hastily packed bag. As he barked orders at them to grab him food from the pantry, digging through his suitcase for his other uniform, disheveled and frantic, Lithuania watched him wordlessly, mentally turning over the news in his head. Russia's at war with Germany. Russia's at war with Germany.

"—lock the door when I leave and do not let _anyone_ in; I will send Polshka back here as soon as possible but I do not know how long I will be away. You are _forbidden_ from talking to Germany or leaving the house for anything less than an emergency, do you understand? I—"

"I declare my independence."

Complete silence. Even Russia stopped, staring open-mouthed at him.

"L- Lithuania," Estonia whispered from behind him, in the same tone he used for Latvia, but this wasn't the same, because Latvia said things and didn't realize what they meant. Lithuania knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

Russia moved, coming to tower over him, eyes dark. "What did you say?" he asked, voice low.

"I declare my independence," Lithuania repeated, slightly louder, and the trembling in his limbs miraculously stayed out of his voice.

Russia back handed him so hard he collapsed to the floor. Lithuania pushed himself up slowly, expecting another blow and not receiving it, daring a look up.

Russia looked down at him in disgust. "You declare your independence," he sneered, scoffing. "I don't have time for this." Turning on his heel, he marched out the door and left, slamming it behind him.

His brothers were at his side in an instant, pulling him to his feet, Lithuania are you okay? What did you _mean,_ you declare your independence, are you insane? Russia will _kill you_, he'll—

"No, he won't!" Lithuania said suddenly, snapping out of his momentary daze. He seized Estonia by the shoulders. "Russia's _at war with Germany_! This is our chance!" Letting go, he darted over to the pile of suitcases, dragging his out. "We're already packed for goodness sake!"

Estonia looked uncertain. "But…"

"No, I refuse to stay here any longer!" Lithuania shouted, taking off up the stairs. He stopped just inside Russia's office, the old fear cascading over him, but Russia wasn't here, Russia was off fighting. He rummaged through the desk, shifting papers until he found—ha! a small wad of rubles, which he promptly shoved into his pocket—_stealing from Russia!_ But he forced the panic down, returning downstairs, where Estonia and Latvia were busy repackaging their lunches into smaller spaces.

"Lithuania, would you get more bread?" the taller of the two asked with a calm urgency.

Lithuania grinned. "Sure!" He flew into the kitchen, elated, they were _leaving_! He grabbed two more loaves and turned to leave, then spotted Russia's vodka. He froze.

The sound of glass shattering drew his brothers to the kitchen in a heartbeat.

"Lithuania! What are you doing?" Estonia asked frantically.

Liet threw another bottle to the ground, glass shards and vodka exploding across the floor. "Making sure that Russia will be _miserable_ when he gets back here!" he said savagely.

Estonia and Latvia hesitated only a few seconds before they joined him. In minutes, there wasn't a drop of alcohol left in the kitchen or pantry, not vodka or port or rum or anything. They stared at the multi-colored mess for a few moments, hearts pounding with a reckless giddiness.

"That- felt really good," Latvia said suddenly.

Estonia opened his mouth as if to scold him, then smiled faintly. "Yeah…" he agreed.

They collected their meager belongings and were out the door five minutes later, leaving it unlocked behind them. They managed to catch a crowded trolley and stood wedged between grim-faced older men and sobbing mothers with their uniformed sons, and it was then that the high of escaping began to wear off and Liet started to seriously think about _how_ they were going to get back home.

They got off near the train station and at Liet's instance, ducked into an alley to change into their uniforms, then joined the flocks of soldiers streaming into the station for deployment.

"If anyone asks, just tell them you're being sent back to the Eighth Army," Liet said under his breath as they made their way through the crowd. "Honestly, with all this confusion, I'd be amazed if someone looked twice at you."

Latvia slowed, prompting Estonia to grab his hand to make him keep up. "What do you mean, 'you'?" the petite blonde asked. "You are coming, aren't you?"

"Da—" And they all winced, "but only to your capital. Then Eduard takes a train north and I go south." Lithuania immediately regretted his words, watching Latvia's face fall. "But it'll be fine, you'll already be home. Just think of that, Raivis; you'll be _home_," he tried, hoping to sooth the tearing nation.

"B- But I'll miss you…" he muttered.

Lithuania and Estonia shared a look. "I know, but we'll see each soon," Liet promised.

At the time, he didn't realize how true that was.

After buying three cheap tickets and then bribing one of the conductors to ignore the fact that their papers weren't in order—how ridiculous that they needed visas to get into their own countries! They _were_ their countries!—they were nearly broke. Lithuania hoped to god that they didn't run into any more problems like that, because they didn't have enough for another 'favor'.

But the ride was long and uneventful. Most of the five-day trip was passed in silence, all of them lost in thought. They slowly ate their lunches, rationing them so they would last as long as possible, changing stations when necessary, sleeping in shifts, curled up on the seats under their coats. At the sight of Latvia using a sleeping Estonia as a pillow, Lithuania couldn't help but smile slightly, but he glanced back out the window and watched the dark countryside roll by, his thoughts turning towards darker things.

The news changed from station to station, as passengers boarded and disembarked, carrying with them newspapers and snippets of radio reports and hushed gossip, that Germany was taking Poland, that the German army was pushing forward, to the north, the south, to a full assault. He wondered where Poland was now, probably alone on a train somewhere, hopefully going home, or to Germany's. Try as he might to avoid it, he thought about Russia, probably already on his way to the front lines, just one soldier among millions. If he stared out into the enveloping darkness long enough, he could almost see him there, marching along the steppe, and a part of him pitied the arctic nation, but a greater part of him hoped he ran afoul with a grenade. And while on _that_ topic, he had no weapon. That was probably the greatest flaw in his 'we're just reporting for duty sir' cover story, and it needed to be remedied quickly. But they didn't have the money for a rifle, never mind three, and unless they actually reported for duty it's unlikely they would be issued one. The easiest thing to do would be to go to his boss, get him to settle everything, fast, no trouble, he'd be outfitted and well supplied in a heartbeat, but technically his boss was a Soviet supporter and Lithuania doubted he would be given arms. Not went he felt like this. Not when he heard snatches of news, a rebellion in Vilnius, in Kaunas, the Lithuanian people rioting against the Russians…

Once they reached Riga, they parted admits hugs and tears and wishes of luck and strength. Latvia disappeared into the city, Estonia boarded a train north, and Lithuania turned south. He managed to get a compartment to himself, because who in their right mind went _towards _the fighting? So he sat alone, tense and weary, dozing off despite his best efforts. Then he was abruptly wrenched from his sleep when a jolt coursed through his body—he was _home_. For the first time in over a _year_, he was home.

The tears fell soft and silent as he stared mutely out the window.

A few minutes later, the train slowed. Lithuania straightened in his seat; their first stop within his borders shouldn't be until Panevezys. Flatting himself against the window, he saw ahead to the station platform, where a small group of Soviet soldiers waited. His heart sank.

Word spread through the cars like wildfire; everyone off, the army needed the train to move supplies. Lithuania meekly filed off with the other passengers but before he had the chance to flee a soldier had him by the arm, dragging him off to the side. He saw the lieutenant's stripes just in time to snap off a salute.

"Name, tovarishch?"

They went through his papers, frowning at the lack of visa, but when they asked him why he came and he answered to fight, they backed down, merely berating him for losing his visa (don't you know you could get arrested without it? Trying to enter a country illegally—and Lithuania bit back his response with difficulty). Otherwise they left him alone, assigning a private to escort him back to the barracks for orders. And as they walked through the city in the dying sunlight, Lithuania tried to figure out how he could get away; when the soldier 'leading' him ducked down an alleyway for a shortcut, Liet took his chance and lunged, snatching the TT-33 pistol from its holster. The soldier had just enough time to turn, eyes wide with shock, before Lithuania pulled the trigger.

He raided the ammunition and supplies quickly, leaving the alley as fast as possible, staying off the main roads until he reached the outskirts of the town, where he changed out of his uniform into regular street clothes. And blessed be his people for kindness—a car stopped on its way out of town, _not_ full of Soviet soldiers, and the man was willing to give him a lift. Over the radio were broadcasts in Lithuanian, his national anthem, declarations that Lithuanian independence had been restored, a call for greater resistance, praise for the German Luftwaffe which was decimating Soviet forces across the country, and Lithuania spent the entire ride listening, dazed, exhausted and happy and a part of him still couldn't believe it.

The man's wife took one look at him and refused to let him leave until morning, so Liet slept in a guest bedroom with a door that locked on the _inside_ and came down to an already made breakfast with a family that spoke to him _in Lithuanian_, who told him what they had heard was the best way to get to the capital, and that there was rumored to be rebel forces forming sporadically in these parts even, wouldn't you believe it? He thanked them and left, and after about forty minutes or so walking caught another ride, a family of three trying to get to the child's grandmother, and they nearly made it all the way to Ukmerge before they ran into a military road block, but it wasn't Soviet.

It was German.

They got out of the car, hands in the air, surrendered their papers, and at the soldier's insistence, both Lithuania and the man surrendered their pistols, Lithuania's garnering far more attention for being a Russian model than the man's old German version. While Liet tried to explain how he acquired it, another soldier found a problem with the family's papers, and before Liet knew it he was cuffed and being shoved into an armed truck, to be transported to the army's base in Ukmerge proper. Once they arrived they were subjected to another round of questioning; Lithuania became more and more frustrated as the mother and child became more and more frightened, finally losing his temper and shouting at the soldiers, which got him stuttering apologies when no less than a dozen Gewehr 41s were aimed at him. As he haltingly tried to request that the family be allowed to leave, they were just trying to get to their relative's house, a second army vehicle pulled up, out of which stepped Germany. Lithuania's heart soared hopefully.

"Was ist diese?" Germany demanded, walking over with sharp, efficient strides. The other soldiers made a way for him, one man in particularly saluting crisply before giving a quick summary. As he was briefed, Germany's blue eyes found Lithuania's own green ones and held them. Liet couldn't read the look there.

Germany examined the family's papers, his expression blank; he handed them to one of his men, conveying his orders in an undertone that had the family shifting nervously. They were led away and Germany turned his attention to Lithuania.

Lithuania saluted; Germany blinked once, then returned it. "Lorinaitis," he greeted shortly.

"Guten tag, Herr Beilschmidt," Liet responded, dragging up his knowledge of German, hoping it wasn't too terribly out-dated. "Thank you for liberating the country from Soviet control."

Germany nodded. "I think you and I need to talk."

"Agreed."

The stern nation turned and headed back to his car, Lithuania following. Once they were out of earshot of the other soldiers, Liet repeated softly, "Really, thank you for kicking Russia out. I, it means a lot to me."

Germany slid into the front seat. "He needs to be stopped. Russia's icy steppes might have stopped Napoleon, but Napoleon did not have the advantage of modern technology."

Lithuania nodded, climbing into the back seat at a soldier's gesture. "As soon as I get my army organized, I'll give you all the assistance I can in driving him out. A Provincial Government has already been formed, I'm sure it can be formalized quickly—"

"The Provincial Government is not the governing body here."

Lithuania blinked. "What? Then—"

"Once Russia is driven out, Lithuania will be incorporated into the Reichskommissariat Ostland," Germany stated.

The car door slammed shut on the silence that followed. "But, I'm my own independent country," Liet said slowly, frowning.

Germany glanced into the rearview mirror as he started the car. "Du bist ein Teil des Dritten Reiches," he said calmly, adding, "Du sollst glücklich sein; du willst jetzt stark sein."

Lithuania opened his mouth to deny his inclusion when a volley of gunshots cut him off; he jumped, swiveling towards the sound.

The family laid in a crumpled heap near the compound's outer wall, blood splattered across it. Lithuania stared, breath coming in shallow pulls. "Wh- what…?" They were… Lithuanian civilians…

"Their papers were forged," Germany answered simply as he shifted the car into gear. "They were Jews, trying to flee the country."

Lithuania took in Germany's unruffled composure, how totally unaffected he was by the family's execution, saw the bodies being dragged aside as they drove past, and was struck with the sudden fear that this was going to be far worse than Russia's.

He was right.

* * *

On June 22, 1941, German forces invaded the Soviet Union, taking Poland while simultaneously sweeping into Ukraine, Belarus, and the Baltics. Immediately following news of Germany's assault, Lithuania declared his independence and his soldiers mutinied, rebel groups seizing control of strategic positions in Vilinus and Kaunas. The Lithuanian people initially greeting the German forces as liberators, thinking that Germany would recognize Lithuania's independence. This hope quickly faded as Germany disarmed the rebel forces after driving out the Soviets from the area and the country was swiftly incorporated into 'Ostland', which included the Baltics and Belarus.

The invasion was marked by early German success, the Luftwaffe absolutely obliterating the Soviet Air Force within a month of the first offensive. The Baltics, Belarus, and the Ukraine all fell to German occupation, and Russian troops were eventually forced back all the way to Moscow, which came under violent siege. However, as the Soviet forces retreated, they burnt their crops and fields; that, coupled with the Russian peasants that were hiding in the forests, waging guerrilla warfare against the invaders, made it nearly impossible for Germany to supply his troops as they pushed deeper into hostile Russian territory. Germany had also grossly underestimated Russia's strength and did not get the clean, quick victory they were hoping for.

Then winter hit. Yeah... Pretty much enough said.

German translation:

Was ist diese- what is this?

Du bist ein Teil des Dritten Reiches. Du sollst glücklich sein; du willst jetzt stark sein- You are a part of the Third Reich. You should be happy; you will be strong now.

I wanted to thank everyone for reading my fanfic; this is actually the first fic I have managed to take to its completion, and it's gotten such a wonderful reception. I am considering writing a sequel of sorts, snapshots of scenes from WWII; is this a good idea? Is anyone interested? Let me know!

As always, read and review, comrades! And thank you again for seeing this through.


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